Reclaiming Myself

How do you trust yourself when the voices of your past still echo in your mind? When you’ve been told, “You’re a waste of skin,” and “No one wants you, not even your father”? Those words stick. They settle deep inside, shaping how you see yourself, how you let others treat you. For a long time, I didn’t feel like myself. I was afraid my grandmother was right with all her cruel words. Maybe I really was worthless.

I tried to cope in the only way I knew how—by hurting myself. Self-harm gave the illusion of control, like it could somehow make things better. But it never did. Instead, it gave the invisible scars on my soul more power. I was showing my pain, but no one noticed. No one cared. I was left alone with the marks on my skin, a reflection of the deeper wounds no one could see.

I wasn’t taught how to love myself, let alone trust myself. Instead, I was told that love was conditional—if I loved my mother, I had to care for her. Emotional blackmail disguised as duty. There was no affection, no pride, just responsibility handed to me far too young.

I never saw my mother walk; she was bound to a wheelchair. And my father? He left us with my grandparents; left me with their cold hands and sharp words. “You’re too stupid to kill yourself,” they’d say. I was raised in an environment that chipped away at me. No love, no warmth, just expectations. I carried that weight for years, believing I wasn’t enough. But despite it all, I fought. I fought for a sense of self, for some kind of freedom. And even when no one was there to support me, I found my escape.

Music became my refuge. It gave me a way out of the endless cycle of guilt and pain, letting me feel something different, something other than the hollow ache of not being wanted. In those notes, I found pieces of myself I had never been allowed to see. Slowly, I began to realize I didn’t need to prove my worth to anyone. Music helped me hold on when everything else was pulling me down.

Still, trusting myself didn’t come easily. For years, I didn’t realize I was living for others’ approval. Even now, it’s a battle. I’ve had people who should have lifted me up but kept me hidden, like my friend who says I’m the only one who truly understands him, but keeps me a secret. “You’ve been my light for years now,” he says. But how can I be a light when I’ve spent most of my life unseen, unacknowledged? There’s a strange pain in being someone’s emotional support, someone’s safety net, but still living in the shadows. It reminds me of the days when my worth was measured by what I could do for others—when love came with conditions, and recognition felt like a distant dream. It’s hard to trust yourself when you’re constantly hidden, when the world isn’t allowed to see you fully.

And then there’s my husband. His love is steady and constant, a grounding presence in my life. He doesn’t ask for the same kind of emotional intensity as others, and his stability has been a gift in many ways. But even within that safety, there are parts of me he may never fully understand. His love is not about pushing boundaries or emotional extremes, but it also means I’ve had to learn how to handle the deeper wounds on my own. The weight of my past, the pain that still lingers—these are things I’ve carried in silence, even in the safety of our relationship.

Each relationship reflects different parts of my journey. My friend reminds me of the intense emotional battles I’ve fought—of the push and pull, the hidden truths. My husband offers a quiet, solid love, but that doesn’t erase the scars I’ve had to heal on my own. And through both, I’ve had to find a way to trust myself. To trust that I’m more than someone’s hidden light, more than the quiet strength beside another. I am my own person, worthy of being seen and loved completely, even if those around me don’t always reflect that back to me.

Yet, despite all that, I’ve built a good and steady life. I’m a mom of three, a teacher who brings joy to the kids I work with. I laugh with them, teach them in ways I was never taught. I’ve worked hard to create a life that feels real and true. Even though my childhood was full of neglect, even though I’ve carried the weight of those cruel words for so long, I’m here. I’ve succeeded, even when the odds were against me.

And yet, the past still clings. There are moments when doubt creeps back in, when those old voices try to convince me I’m still not enough. It’s a constant struggle to quiet them. But I’m learning. I’m learning that the voices of the past don’t define me. The cruelty of my grandmother, the neglect from my father, the manipulation from people who should have loved me—they don’t get the final say.

Trusting myself is about reclaiming my story. It’s about knowing I’ve already fought the hardest battles, and I’m still standing. The life I’ve built, the love I give, the joy I find in music and in my work—it’s all mine. Despite the hurt, I’m here. And that’s enough.

I’m learning to trust myself. But it’s not something that happens all at once. It’s in the small moments, the quiet victories. When I choose my peace over the need for approval, when I recognize my strength without waiting for validation. It’s in the way I love my kids differently, and in honoring the parts of me that were once broken but now hold the deepest resilience.

Letting go of the past isn’t about erasing it but about transforming it into something that fuels my future. Every day, I take another step toward trusting that I am enough. And that, in itself, is a triumph.