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  • Whose Life Are You Living?

    I’ve learned that trying to become the person your parents hope for can be honorable—but only if it doesn’t cost you yourself. When a life is lived primarily to meet someone else’s expectations, it can slowly fill with regret. Not loud regret, but the kind that settles in quietly and shapes how you show up in love, in connection, and in honesty.

    Love becomes confusing when you’re unsure whose life you’re living. It’s hard to give yourself fully to another person when you haven’t given yourself permission to be fully you.

    I hope people remember that respect for parents doesn’t require self-abandonment. You can honor where you come from without losing sight of where you’re going. And sometimes, learning what love is starts with choosing authenticity over obligation.

  • Waking Up From the Fantasy

    I think I finally woke up from the fantasy I was living in.

    For a long time, I romanticized a situation that was never meant to grow. I filled in the gaps with hope, convincing myself that what I was experiencing meant more than it actually did. It was easier to believe in potential than to accept reality.

    But clarity arrived when I got honest with myself about what I truly want.

    I want a family. I want children. I want a life built on commitment, consistency, and love that doesn’t live in the shadows. Once I admitted that, the situation I was in no longer fit the future I’m trying to build.

    I was investing my time and emotions in someone who was unavailable in all the ways that mattered. Someone whose life was already full, already chosen, already settled. I was only being offered what was convenient—moments without responsibility, connection without intention.

    The hardest realization wasn’t about them.

    It was about me.

    For a long time, I hid behind the belief that I wouldn’t find anyone better. That this was as much as I deserved. I told myself I should be grateful for the attention, even if it came with limits that slowly chipped away at my self-worth.

    I confused being wanted with being valued. I let attention stand in for love because, at the time, it felt safer than believing I deserved more.

    But attention without intention is not love.

    And connection without direction leads nowhere.

    Staying meant abandoning parts of myself—my standards, my future, my voice. Leaving meant choosing alignment over illusion. It meant letting go of what felt familiar so I could make room for what actually fits the life I want.

    I’m learning that love doesn’t require secrecy or self-sacrifice. It doesn’t ask you to shrink, wait, or settle. Real love meets you fully and openly.

    And I hope that one day I’ll look back and know without doubt that I was always worth more than the things I allowed myself to endure.

  • 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 Power of Strong Women in Family Structures

    From a sociological perspective, I think matrifocal families can be more dynamic and effective at strengthening family bonds than traditional patriarchal families. I know this might be an unpopular opinion, but I believe that having strong women and supportive men plays a key role in creating a healthy and balanced family structure.

    With curiosity—Shavesha Steele

  • Letter to myself -Ending 2025

    Letter to myself -Ending 2025

    If no one ever tells you this out loud, let it be written here: you survived a year that quietly reshaped you.

    Dear Me,

    You made it to the end of 2025. Pause for a second and really sit with that. This year tried you in ways you couldn’t have predicted, and yet—here you are. Still standing. Still learning. Still choosing yourself more than you used to.

    2025 wasn’t gentle, but it was honest. It showed you what drains you, what nourishes you, and what you can no longer pretend doesn’t hurt. You learned that walking away is not failure—it’s wisdom. That peace is not boring. That consistency matters more than words. And that you never need to shrink to be loved correctly.

    You grew quieter this year, but stronger. You stopped over-explaining. You stopped chasing clarity from people who thrived on confusion. You started trusting that uneasy feeling in your chest—and every time you did, it proved you right.

    This year taught you that healing isn’t linear. Some days you felt powerful, other days exhausted. Both were real. Both were allowed. And neither erased the progress you were making, even when it felt invisible.

    You learned to protect your energy. To rest without guilt. To take yourself seriously. To believe that what you want isn’t “too much”—it’s simply not for everyone.

    I’m proud of you for choosing growth even when it was lonely. For staying soft in a world that rewards numbness. For continuing to dream, even when disappointment tried to convince you to settle.

    As you step into the next chapter, remember this:

    You don’t need to prove your worth.

    You don’t need to earn basic respect.

    You don’t need to rush what’s meant to last.

    Carry the lessons, not the weight. Carry the confidence, not the fear. Carry yourself the way you wish others had.

    You did more than survive 2025—you became more you.

    With gratitude and trust,

    Me

  • 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.

  • To Feel Is to Be Free

    They walk with stone faces,
    barely breathing through their own skin,
    wearing numb like a name tag
    “Hello, I’m fine,”
    when fine is just another word for hiding.

    They sip silence
    like it quenches something,
    but thirst still clings to their ribs.
    They scroll, swipe, smile through glass,
    pretending emptiness is elegance.

    But I—
    I want to feel.

    Let it wreck me.
    Let it rush through like summer rain,
    stinging, sweet,
    pulling truth from the parts I’ve buried.

    I want to ache when it’s real.
    To laugh like I might lose the sound forever.
    To cry for the world and still believe in it.

    Because to feel
    is the fiercest kind of freedom.
    To stand wide open in a world that shuts down
    is rebellion.
    It’s bravery.

    So let them pretend.
    Let them walk their hollow path.
    I will keep choosing the fire of feeling,
    the chaos of connection,
    the pulse of presence.

    I am not here to be untouched
    I am here to be alive.

  • 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.