There exists a subtle form of grief that manifests quietly, not with loud cries but with soft whispers questioning our choices. It invites reflection on whether we have squandered our own time.
Personally, I often grapple with the temptation to reprimand myself for not heeding my true desires. I've let my fears, societal expectations, and doubts dominate my decisions. In those reflective moments, I often find myself mourning the time lost to chasing an ideal of acceptance, feeling disappointment for ignoring the inner voice that urged me toward what felt right.
Rather than confronting my feelings, I allowed my wounds to keep me stuck, wrapping myself in false comfort with thoughts of divine intervention. Yet, in my numbness, I fell into a cycle of resignation, overlooking the signs that could have led me to change.
The internal struggle I faced was intense; a part of me felt undeserving of my dreams, leading me to push them aside and accept a life of mediocrity. I created a comfortable yet confining routine, akin to a prison, which made it difficult to break free. Despite the suffocating comfort, I felt defeated and trapped, battling the urge to rise from my self-imposed limitations. My life was dictated by rules that never truly belonged to me.
I once followed a path dictated by others, rarely considering if it aligned with my true desires. In my relationships with friends, family, and others, I diminished myself in the quest for their approval, altering my identity to fit in. Reflecting on this, I realize I never took a moment to question what genuinely mattered to me.
In a recent therapy session, I shared with my therapist, “It feels weird to recognize that I have the right to make my own choices.” I realized I have the freedom to choose what feels right and authentic for me. This realization was unfamiliar, like experiencing freedom for the very first time and unsure of how to express it.
Healing is a bitch like that.
Especially when the inner work you’ve done starts to peel back layers and you’re left asking: What is left of me, really?
In one of our sessions, my therapist and I talked about that unsettling, silent space between who I was and who I’m becoming. And I told her, I feel like a caterpillar stuck in its cocoon. Mid-metamorphosis. Trapped in a place between familiarity and the terrifying promise of flight.
Because here’s the truth: I want to bloom. I deserve to bloom. But part of me still yearns to go back to what’s familiar. Not because it served me. Rather, it kept me psychologically safe.
And that safety? It’s seductive. Even if it’s rooted in survival.
This is where the inner child comes in.
The part of me that learned early on that love must be earned. That belonging meant pleasing. That survival depended on staying small, quiet, and palatable. The inner child doesn’t understand that safety can come from growth, not just control. She doesn’t care if the old ways were painful—they were predictable. Predictability feels like protection to her.
Psychologist Dr. Nicole LePera talks about how our inner child unconsciously runs the show until we consciously reparent them. That means learning to show ourselves safety, approval, and validation from the inside out, not just waiting for the world to confirm we’re “doing it right.”
So when I say I’m afraid to bloom, I’m not just talking about fear of success or change. I’m talking about the terror of abandoning the emotional muscle memory of survival. The fear of choosing myself and finding out it’s not enough.
That’s what makes the unknown so intimidating; it offers no guarantees. It offers only the mirror. And sometimes, that mirror reflects a version of you your nervous system hasn’t learned how to hold yet.
I cried in that session. Because somewhere deep down, I know I’ve earned this next chapter in my life. I’ve worked my ass off to heal, to unlearn, to stretch and grow.
And still, I’m scared.
Scared to let myself down.
Scared to take up space in a life I’ve never lived before.
Scared to meet the woman I’ve been becoming.
There’s something oddly lonely about knowing what’s best for you. No more debating your worth in therapy. No more outsourcing your choices. No more talking with your friends over and over about the same situation. No more hiding behind “maybe” or “someday.” Just you and the mirror. You and the work.
I told my therapist: It feels like I’m holding my whole life in my hands for the first time. And instead of excitement, what washed over me was fear. What if I mess it up? What if I choose wrong? What if I don’t make Little Trinity proud?
I just want her to be proud of me.
I want her to look at the grown-up version of herself and know that it was worth it. That the years of bending and shrinking and people-pleasing led somewhere meaningful. That all this unraveling had a purpose.
I told my therapist that I felt like Thanos in Avengers: Infinity War—that final scene when he’s asked by young Gamora:
“Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
“What did it cost?”
“Everything.”
It’s dramatic, I know. (Plus I’m a Marvel fan!) But this scene hits different when you’re healing, so I have to, because sometimes choosing you means losing everything you once leaned on. Your coping mechanisms. Your old identity. The survival mode that got you here.
That’s the cost of becoming.
Believing in yourself often comes with a price, but this cost is not negative; rather, it signifies the importance of self-trust. It requires unwavering faith in your own decisions, regardless of external opinions or rejections. The true cost of this belief is significant, as it demands that you fully commit to the changes you wish to make. Ultimately, only you can determine when you are ready to embrace that transformation.
Letting go of the narratives you were handed so you can write your own. Saying goodbye to the version of you who did what she had to do—and embracing the version of you who does what she wants to do.
As trauma expert Gabor Maté writes, “The self cannot be restored while we are still loyal to what we needed to do to survive.”
And that quote? It sits deep in my bones.
Yes, it’s terrifying.
But it’s also worth it.
Because even in fear, I’m learning to bet on myself. I’m learning that maybe discomfort is just the cost of freedom. That transformation isn’t tidy. That safety isn’t always synonymous with growth.
So like J. Cole said:
“If I’m betting on myself, then I’ll completely double down.”
I’m going all in on this next season of my life.
Even if I’m scared.
Even if it costs everything.
Because this time, I get to choose. And this time, I choose me.
The Unwind
You don’t owe shame. Not for the years you spent surviving, not for the time it took to wake up, and certainly not for the fear that still visits you when you’re on the edge of your becoming. Let it come. Let it sit. But don’t let it steer. You are no longer bound to the rules you never agreed to. And even if your voice shakes, you get to write the rest of this story on your terms.