There were versions of me I used to resent—
the overthinking one, the one with her guard welded to her ribs,
the one who could never rest because she believed the world would collapse
the moment she dared to exhale.
For a long time, I thought these versions were flaws I needed to fix.
Parts of me I should hide or outgrow.
Evidence that I was “too much,” “too serious,” “too damaged.”
But healing has a strange way of shifting the lighting on your own story.
And when I look back now, I see something different.
I see a girl who learned to survive with the tools she had.
I see a woman who adapted faster than she ever should’ve needed to.
I see protectors—imperfect, yes, but loyal in their own rough-edged way.
There was the Hyper-Independent One,
the version of me who believed asking for help was a burden.
She carried everything—grief, responsibility, guilt, expectations—
until her spine bent under the load.
She didn’t trust anyone to stay, so she trusted no one at all.
And the truth is: she kept me safe when I didn’t have anyone.
There was the Perfectionist,
the girl who sharpened herself into something unbreakable.
If she never messed up, no one could punish her.
If she kept every room spotless, every word edited,
maybe the chaos around her would be a little less loud.
She was terrified of disappointing anyone,
and she tried so hard to earn a sense of safety she never should’ve had to earn.
There was the Silent One,
who swallowed her needs so no one would think she was weak.
She held entire storms inside her chest because she didn’t know
that feelings are meant to move through you, not calcify.
She believed stillness equaled strength.
But she was just trying not to drown.
There was the Vigilant One,
a shadow leaning forward in every room,
scanning faces, predicting shifts in tone,
anticipating danger that wasn’t there anymore.
She was tired all the time.
But she kept watch because no one ever kept watch for her.
All of these versions—
the too much, the too quiet, the too strong,
the “why am I like this?” versions—
they weren’t mistakes.
They were guardians.
They did not fail me.
They saved me.
But here’s the truth healing demands:
sometimes the things that kept you alive
cannot carry you into the life you’re building now.
So I’ve been learning to thank them,
to sit with each version like an old friend,
to tell them,
You did your job.
You kept me alive.
You don’t have to run the show anymore.
I can take it from here.
The hardest part of healing isn’t letting go of the past—
it’s letting go of the selves you became to survive it.
And maybe that’s the quiet miracle of all this:
recognizing that I’m not broken,
I’m simply evolving—
gently, slowly, into someone who doesn’t have to fight so hard
just to exist.
Someone who is allowed to rest.
Someone who is allowed to need.
Someone who is allowed to be held.
Someone who is, finally, safe.
Crow and Flame 