Dose of chevvi

Category: Uncategorized

  • Dear Me

    Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.

    Dear Me at 100

    I wonder if you finally love yourself—really love yourself.

    If you stopped overthinking every decision , every silence, every “what if.”

    If you learned to let life rise and fall without trying to fix it all.

    Did years of therapy finally pay off? Did you stop shrinking for people who couldn’t see you, stop giving pieces of yourself to those who only took?

    Did you accept that some people are on different cliffs than you, walking their own paths, and that it’s okay? That letting go doesn’t mean losing, it means surviving, growing, becoming whole?

    I hope you let yourself cry when you needed to.

    I hope you rested when you were tired.

    I hope you stopped staying in love that drained you, that used your body or your heart as if it were disposable.

    I hope you found love that lifts instead of breaks, that builds instead of takes.

    But even if you didn’t, I hope you discovered that the most important love was always the one you gave yourself.

    Please remind me, the younger me, that walking away isn’t failing.

    That choosing yourself is courage, not selfishness.

    That reality—messy, imperfect, painful reality—is where love grows.

    And I hope, after all the hurt, all the waiting, all the letting go… you finally feel at peace.

    With hope,

    Me

  • Reality Is Where Love Grows

    I used to believe that love could endure anything.

    I held onto that idea tightly—the one society teaches us—that no matter how hard things get, if you love someone enough, you stay. That being alone somehow means you’ve failed. So I stayed longer than I should have, trying to make something work that was quietly breaking me.

    Letting go didn’t just hurt because of you. It hurt because of what I thought we were supposed to be.

    Somewhere along the way, loving you started to feel like losing myself.

    Love became confusion. Silence where there should have been reassurance. Distance when I was trying to get closer. There were moments you disappeared, moments you came back saying just enough to keep me there—but never enough to truly hold me.

    And deep down, I think I knew.

    You even told me once that my future husband would be lucky to have me. At the time, it sounded like a compliment. But looking back, I realize what it really was—you were already letting me go. You were telling me, without saying it directly, that you weren’t going to be that person.

    And still, I stayed.

    I stayed while feeling dismissed. While feeling hidden. While feeling like I only existed in the parts of your life that were convenient. I stayed while slowly accepting a version of love where I was being taken from, instead of built with.

    At some point, I had to face a hard truth:

    love should not feel like this.

    Love shouldn’t insult you just because someone else is having a bad day. It shouldn’t make you feel small, unwanted, or unsure of where you stand. It shouldn’t reduce you to something that can be used instead of someone who is deeply valued.

    Because love isn’t supposed to use you.

    It’s supposed to build with you.

    And when you try to build with someone who is only taking, you don’t create anything—you just slowly lose pieces of yourself. Until one day, you’re left feeling empty, exhausted, and wondering how you got there.

    The hardest part isn’t always the way they treated you.

    Sometimes, it’s realizing how long you stayed, hoping it would change.

    But I’ve learned something through all of this.

    Being alone isn’t the worst thing.

    Losing yourself is.

    And maybe real love isn’t about holding on no matter what. Maybe it’s about having the strength to choose yourself when staying starts to cost you too much.

    Because at the end of the day

    reality is where love grows.

  • The Daily Habit That’s Changing My Life

    What daily habit do you do that improves your quality of life?

    Self – validation

    you asked me what small, daily habit has made the biggest impact on my life, my answer might surprise you: it’s giving myself the validation I used to look for from others

    For a long time, I believed that love, recognition, or encouragement had to come from outside of me—whether from a partner, a parent, or a friend. When it didn’t, I felt overlooked, unseen, and not good enough. But I’ve realized that waiting for someone else to validate me is like waiting for rain in a drought: you can’t control when or if it comes.

    So instead, I’ve learned to give myself what I need.

    Some days, self-validation looks like whispering to myself:

    • “I did my best today, and that’s enough.”
    • “I’m proud of myself for showing up, even when it’s hard.”
    • “My feelings are real, and they matter.”

    Other days, it’s simply pausing to acknowledge that I made it through another day, despite the challenges.

    This practice hasn’t magically erased my struggles, but it has shifted the way I carry them. Instead of walking through life desperate for someone else to notice me, I’m practicing noticing myself. And that, in turn, helps me set healthier boundaries, trust my own voice, and recognize my worth—whether or not anyone else sees it.

    Validation doesn’t always have to come from the outside. Sometimes, the most healing words are the ones you say to yourself.

  • Right now

    How are you feeling right now?

    Right now , I feel the sting of being overlooked. Growing up, my dad wasn’t really there for me, while others around him were. That’s left a mark — one I still feel in relationships today.

    Sometimes, it’s frustrating, sometimes it hurts, but it also reminds me: I’ve learned to protect my own heart and care for myself first.

    Let’s talk:

    • How do you protect your heart when others can’t meet your needs?
    • Do you find yourself giving more than you get in relationships?

    I’d love to hear how others navigate this.

  • Journal Entry: May 20, 2025

    Is this enough?

    I don’t even know why I’m still asking. But here I am, wondering if this, whatever this is—is enough for me.

    I’m tired. Tired of waiting around for something that feels like it’s always just out of reach. Tired of feeling like I’m the only one trying to hold on while he’s halfway gone. Tired of wondering if I’m too much or not enough, if I’m crazy for wanting clarity, or if I’m just overthinking it all.

    The truth is—I’m scared. Scared because I don’t feel safe here. I don’t feel wanted. I don’t feel like someone who’s really chosen. I’m in this constant state of trying to read the signs, decode his silence, catch the small moments where maybe, just maybe, he actually cares. But mostly, I’m left empty. Waiting. Anxious. Alone.

    I knew this was going to hurt. I knew that from the start. But I never imagined it would hurt this much. This kind of pain—the kind that crushes your chest and leaves you breathless. The kind that makes you question everything about yourself. That’s the worst kind of pain.

    And it’s not just about him.

    It’s about every time I’ve ever been left behind. Every time I’ve been ghosted by love, by people I trusted. Every time I felt invisible, like I was just background noise in someone else’s life. Every time I was left standing outside looking in, hoping to be seen, hoping to be chosen—and never being.

    This—this relationship—is a trigger for all that old pain. It pulls it right to the surface. The abandonment, the broken trust, the aching loneliness. It’s like every wound I’ve ever had is being rubbed raw all over again.

    And what breaks me most isn’t just the silence or the distance—it’s the words.
    The echoes he throws out like knives:
    “I don’t like you.”
    “There’s no space for you here.”
    Those words don’t just sting. They cut deep, deeper than I want to admit.

    I’ve been shrinking. Shrinking my needs. Shrinking my voice. Shrinking myself just so I don’t scare him off. But that’s exhausting. And I’m so damn tired of pretending that’s okay.

    This isn’t love.
    But he already told me he couldn’t love me—so why am I surprised?
    Why did I keep hoping I’d be the exception? Why did I stay, believing I could be enough to change his mind?

    This isn’t what I deserve.
    This is loneliness wearing a disguise.

    I’m done hoping that caring more will fix it. I’m done believing that if I try harder, he’ll finally see me. Because I see now—what I want, what I deserve—is so much more than this mess.

    I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if I’m ready to let go.

  • Almost

    By chevvi

    I miss you like we had something,
    like I held a title I never wore.
    Like your silence was a language
    I kept trying to translate
    into love.

    We were never “together,”
    but I showed up like I was.
    Softened my voice,
    waited on texts,
    folded parts of myself small
    just to fit the space you offered—
    and even that felt like home
    for a while.

    I loved you in the in-between,
    in the pauses,
    in the maybe somedays
    and not yets.
    I gave you my care
    without conditions—
    you gave me confusion
    dressed as closeness.

    So how do you grieve
    someone you never had?
    How do you explain
    the pain of being
    almost chosen?

    Still,
    I’m learning that
    almost love
    isn’t the same
    as being loved.

    And I deserve more
    than the almosts.

  • “I Know, But Still…”

    I know I’m fine.
    I know I’m smart.
    I know I turn heads
    when I walk into a room.
    I know the power I carry.
    I know the softness too.
    I know how to smile
    when everything inside me is shaking.
    I know how to act like nothing ever touched me.

    But still…

    I doubt.
    I overthink.
    I replay shit that already broke me
    just to see if maybe it was my fault.
    I wonder if I’m too much,
    or not enough,
    or both at the same time.

    I flirt like I’m fearless.
    I laugh like I’m not hurting.
    I say “I know”
    when they tell me I’m beautiful
    but deep down I’m asking,
    would you still think so
    if you saw the mess I carry?

    The part of me that didn’t leave,
    that didn’t fight hard enough,
    that stayed quiet,
    that smiled
    just to get it over with.

    I know I didn’t deserve it.
    But sometimes I still feel like I did.

    Sometimes I feel hollow.
    Sometimes I feel numb.
    Like my body isn’t mine,
    just something I keep moving
    to make it through the day.

  • Shattered silence

    All I have is my pen and my paper,
    When the words won’t come, and silence screams,
    I turn to the page, where I can breathe,
    Where thoughts spill out like shattered dreams.

    My mouth is tight, my voice feels small,
    But in the ink, I can steal it all—
    The clutter, the noise, the endless fight,
    Bouncing words like shadows in the night.

    They tell me to be alone, to forget the past,
    To learn to love myself, make it last.
    But how can I, when doubt wears me thin?
    I fight a war inside, unsure where to begin.

    Imposter syndrome, cold and real,
    Makes me question the woman I feel—
    I know who I am, but the fear runs deep,
    I’m Shavesha Steele, but can I even keep
    The strength I’ve built, the life I’ve made,
    When doubt’s grip keeps me afraid?

    I am more than the weight I carry,
    More than the scars that still make me wary,
    Even when the world says, “You’re not enough,”
    I will rise, even if it’s hard, even when it’s rough.

  • Worth in the Word

    Subscribe to continue reading

    Subscribe to get access to the rest of this post and other subscriber-only content.

  • 09.16.24

    Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.

    A Lesson I Wish I Had Learned Earlier in Life

    Looking back, the one lesson I wish I’d learned much sooner in life—or rather, that my parents should have instilled in me—was the burden of constantly “wearing a mask.” For years, I found interacting with people utterly exhausting, and I couldn’t figure out why. Now I realize it was because I was never truly being myself. I was always hiding behind a façade, pretending to be who I thought others wanted me to be. I wasn’t just afraid of being open or vulnerable—I was conditioned to believe that being myself was somehow wrong. Every time I showed my true self, it was met with criticism or disapproval, making me retreat even further behind the mask.

    In my downtime, I finally felt at peace. Alone, I could drop the act, and for a moment, I could just be—no expectations, no pressure to live up to anyone else’s standards. I didn’t have to worry about disappointing anyone or feeling like I wasn’t enough. It was a brief but liberating escape from the constant performance I put on in front of others.

    But what I wish I had understood earlier is how deeply I had tied my sense of self-worth to the attention of others. I equated attention with love, care, and approval. If someone wasn’t giving me their attention, I assumed it meant their feelings toward me had changed. That lack of attention made me feel insecure, like I wasn’t enough without their validation.

    I see now how damaging that mindset was. It kept me in a cycle of seeking external validation instead of finding it within myself. I wish I had realized sooner that love isn’t about constant attention. True love, real care, doesn’t have to be flashy or always visible. And more importantly, the validation I was chasing from others was something I should’ve been giving myself all along.

    If I could go back, I would teach my younger self that you don’t need anyone’s approval to feel worthy. I’d tell myself to take off the mask, to stop pretending, and to trust that I am enough as I am—without needing to perform for others. I wish I had learned earlier that it’s okay to be vulnerable, and that real connection comes from showing up authentically, not from trying to be perfect or constantly seeking attention.

    The sooner we learn to love and accept ourselves, the sooner we can experience genuine peace and fulfillment. I wish I hadn’t waited so long to embrace this truth, but I’m grateful that I’ve finally learned it now.

    But hey, better late than never, right? So, here’s to unmasking, embracing the awkwardness, and learning to just be me.

    Yours truly,

    The champion of overthinking