I’m Not in Love With Myself Yet. But I’m Finally Trying

 I’m not here to tell you I’ve found self-love.

I haven’t.

Most days I don’t even recognize the person people say they see in me.

I still avoid mirrors.

I still can’t take a picture without wanting to hide behind filters.

I still feel disconnected from my own face, my own body, and the version of me I wish I could be.

But I’m here because I finally reached the point where I don’t want to keep living like this.

I’m starting trauma therapy — real trauma therapy, the kind that digs into the things I’ve carried for years, the things I never said out loud, the things that made a grown man therapist cry.

I’m doing EMDR.

I’m facing memories I’ve buried.

I’m trying to understand why my body reacts the way it does, why intimacy feels complicated, why sleep apnea takes such a toll on my emotional and physical life, and why loving myself feels like climbing a mountain barefoot.

I’m not healed.

I’m not confident.

I’m not “there.”

But I’m here.

And that counts for something.

This Substack isn’t a celebration of the person I’ve become — it’s a documentation of the person I’m trying to become.

The woman who wants to feel okay looking at herself.

The woman who wants to feel safe in her own skin.

The woman who wants to love herself eventually, even if she can’t yet.

I’m writing from the beginning, not the ending.

From the first steps of healing, not the finish line.

From the messy middle — the part most people hide.

If you’re also somewhere between hurt and healing… between who you were taught to be and who you’re trying to become… then you’re in the right place with me.

We don’t have to love ourselves yet.

We just have to show up.

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