A quiet corner, much like the spaces where I found pieces of myself again.

Growing up, I always had these insecurities that nobody loved me, and that I was unwanted and useless. I believed I was invisible, that even in a room full of people, I wouldn't be missed if I slipped out quietly. I wonder sometimes if anything would have changed had I been the younger one, or simply had someone validate me early on. Maybe. Maybe not. But that's not the point. 

The point is, that I have grown. And now, those feelings don't even hold weight. They feel like distant echoes from a version of myself I've long since outgrown. Today, I no longer question my worth - I know I am valued, seen, and held with love. And that truth runs deep. Not in some exaggerated or romanticized way, but in the quiet, grounding sense of being known. 

So, if you've ever felt the same - if you've ever questioned your worth or your place in the world - know this: you are not weird or broken. You are not alone in your loneliness. And more importantly, you've already outlived that version of yourself, even if you still carry pieces of them. The fact that you're still here, still trying, still open to healing - that alone is something to be proud of. You are you. And that is your power. 

I've learned a lot from this life. The art of letting go - without bitterness. I've discovered the quiet courage it takes to support others while still nurturing my healing with tenderness. The grace of reading between the lines - because people don't always say what they mean, and silence can speak volumes. I've learned the quiet resolve in never lowering my standards, even if it means standing alone. Above all, I've learned gratitude for every person who softened my journey, who included me when I least expected it, and who saw me when I was afraid of being seen. Your kindness has never gone unnoticed. Even the smallest gestures - an unexpected compliment, a shared laugh, a gentle nudge - have lived in me long after the moment passed.

I no longer look back with regret for choosing myself. For a while, I did. I questioned myself, replayed conversations, and wondered if I acted too soon or felt too much. But not anymore. With time, I've come to see - I truly tried, wholeheartedly and honestly. I chose myself, even when it hurt. I showed up for my heart, even when no one else did. And that's not a weakness. That's strength. 

Being selectively social and an ambivert, I had no trouble making friends in school and college. I could blend in and connect when I wanted to. But the workplace? That was different. I was a lone wolf there. When everyone went to eat lunch together, no one invited me. I smiled and lied, saying I'd brought lunch from home, just to avoid the awkwardness of being left behind. I felt invisible. But over time, things changed. People began to notice. Eventually, they made a genuine effort to include me. I hesitated - it felt unfamiliar, like stepping out of a shell. But I said yes. And you know what? It wasn't bad. I had fun. I laughed. I felt seen. That experience taught me something simple yet profound: sometimes, saying yes doesn't go wrong. Sometimes, it brings you back to life. 

You don't owe a yes to everything that comes your way. But once in a while? Try it. It might just surprise you. 

It also made me more empathetic. You don't truly understand what someone is going through until you've stood in that same silence. Sometimes, the smallest gestures - a kind word, an invitation, a shared meal - can light up someone else's darkness. And once you know that, you become gentler. More careful. More human.

There were times in my childhood when I felt lonely. I remember keeping myself company with a single toy kitchen set and a few mud toys. We couldn't afford much more. Watching my younger sister receive new toys made me jealous, but it also taught me the joy of giving. The bittersweet beauty of wanting someone else to be happy, even if you felt a little left behind. Maybe that's why gift-giving is my love language now. Maybe that's why I adore playing with children - because I remember what it felt like to be the child waiting for someone to play with.

A quiet offering, wrapped in memory and meaning.

Maybe writing was my calling all along - and I just hadn't realized it. I used to write to make sense of the chaos. Now, I write to remember my strength. To connect, to heal, to grow. Writing feels like holding my younger self's hand and telling her, "You'll be okay." It feels like answering questions I didn't know I had.

Over time, my understanding of love has shifted and deepened. It's not the kind of love found in fairy tales, but a softer, steadier kind. The kind that shows up. The kind that embraces all of you without asking you to become less. I once wrote: "True love shows up - softly, steadily. It includes, not excludes. It makes space, not excuses." That's a truth I carry with me. It's not just about romantic love - it's about all the people who remind you of your worth.

In moments of reflection, I sometimes wonder if I misread things. I wrote once: "Perhaps I misunderstood it all - the unspoken pauses, the fleeting glances, the subtle moments I thought meant more. But even if I did - this feeling, this version of love that bloomed in the quiet, that made me softer, wiser, braver - it's still mine. And it's still beautiful." That's what emotional growth does - it teaches you to find beauty in the lessons, even the ones wrapped in uncertainty. 

I used to think love alone was enough. But now I know - it also needs timing, clarity, choice, and the courage to act. Love without clarity is just longing. And I've learned to tell the difference.

There was a time when someone said I should be more open and smart to handle Court. You didn't let that slide. You said, "She knows how to talk back." You weren't just defending me - you were affirming something real in me that others often missed. That moment meant more than you could've known. Moments like that stitched me back together. 

When distance crept in, I feared the silence. But instead, it brought clarity. I once wrote: "Distance has a way of either making people come closer or pushing them apart. For us, it brought us closer. It was during that time apart that I started feeling for you - slowly at first, and then all at once." Growth comes in waves, and sometimes, in stillness.

I owe this version of myself to all the people who reminded me of who I was, especially when I forgot. To the friend who checked in on my worst days. To the colleague who noticed I wasn't okay. To the strangers whose kindness softened my sharp edges. To the gentle sense of comfort that arrived when I least expected it, in places I never thought to look.

Cheers to all those who helped shape me. For grounding me. For holding space for me. 

I wouldn't have come this far without every one of you. 

A big, heartfelt thank you.

From me to you.

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