I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be this way. I didn’t choose to overthink every text message or pull away from people right when they get close. Honestly, most of the time, I wish I could stop doing it. But these patterns grew in me long before I understood what they meant. They grew quietly, like vines in the background of my life, shaping the way I reach for people—and the way I run from them.
Growing Up in Emotional Weather That Changed Too Fast
As a kid, I learned early that affection wasn’t always safe. Some days people loved me with an open heart; other days they were distant, distracted, or overwhelmed. I became a weather forecaster of emotions—always scanning facial expressions, tones of voice, the tiniest hints of tension.
When love feels unpredictable, you learn to hold yourself in a strange way:
tight enough not to fall apart, but loose enough to slip away if you need to.
I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was learning that closeness could vanish without warning. And so I grew used to preparing for the moment it would.
The Habit of Staying Small
At some point, I stopped asking for much. Not because I didn’t have needs, but because I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be the reason someone sighed, shut down, or walked away. So I swallowed my feelings, learned to say “I’m fine” even when I wasn’t, and convinced myself I was being mature, even noble.
But the truth is, I was scared.
Scared of being too much.
Scared of being not enough.
Scared that if I showed people what I felt, they’d decide they didn’t want to deal with me.
So I built a version of myself that looked independent but was actually just lonely in a very organized way.
The Push and Pull I Never Meant to Create
I wish people knew how much effort I put into trying to seem calm. How much energy it takes to not text first, or to act like I don’t care, or to respond after hours when really, I saw their message immediately and panicked about what to say.
I don’t avoid people because I don’t care; I avoid them because I care too much.
And when I withdraw, it’s not because I’m uninterested. It’s because my anxiety gets so loud that I need silence just to breathe. But that silence often looks like indifference—and that’s where everything gets tangled.
It’s a strange, painful dance: I reach for people, then flinch from my own reaching.
Old Wounds That Still Whisper
Even now, some part of me still braces for abandonment. When something good starts happening, I feel this quiet fear that it’s temporary. Like I need to prepare for the goodbye before the hello is even done.
It’s not logical. It’s not something I want. It’s just the echo of old stories my heart hasn’t fully unlearned.
And because I’m afraid of losing people, I sometimes push them away first—not to hurt them, but because I’m terrified of being the one left standing alone.
Trying to Become Someone Softer, Not Smaller
I’m trying to do things differently now. I’m learning to sit with my fear without letting it control me. I’m practicing saying how I feel—even when my voice shakes, even when my mind screams don’t say it. I’m trying not to shrink myself to keep others comfortable.
Most of all, I’m trying to believe that love doesn’t have to be a battlefield or a test I’m destined to fail.
I’m not healed, not fully. But I’m human. I’m trying. I’m learning where these patterns came from and offering myself grace instead of judgment.
Maybe that’s the beginning of something better.
Maybe that’s what it means to grow—slowly, imperfectly, but honestly.
Namashkar.