I realize now that I was chasing something that never existed — a dream stitched together from expectations, comparisons, and the illusion of what I thought happiness should look like. I chased it so hard, so blindly, that I lost sight of the parts of me that once felt alive and true. In my pursuit of a life that was never meant for me, I dropped the pieces of myself that felt most like home — the laughter, the curiosity, the quiet knowing of who I was before the world told me who I should be.
I became consumed with the pursuit. Every milestone I didn’t reach felt like failure, every detour like proof that I wasn’t enough. I built my identity around what I thought I should be instead of who I was. And the more I reached for that illusion, the more I disappeared.
It’s strange how easy it is to lose yourself quietly. Not all at once, but in small, almost unnoticeable ways. A compromise here, a silenced truth there. You start to trade authenticity for acceptance, and before long you’re living a life that doesn’t even fit your own skin.
When I finally stopped running, there was a kind of grief that came with it — grief for the person I’d been pretending to be, and grief for the person I’d abandoned along the way. But there was also relief. The kind that comes when you finally exhale after holding your breath for years.
I’m learning now that coming home to yourself isn’t always graceful. It’s messy and uncertain. It means sitting with your own truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means forgiving the version of you that didn’t know better, and choosing, day by day, to pick up the pieces you once left behind.
There’s a quiet strength in that — in reclaiming what you lost, even when you were the one who let it go.
Because sometimes, healing isn’t about chasing the life you thought you wanted.
It’s about remembering the life that was meant for you all along.
Crow and Flame 