Choosing
675 Words
Choosing myself did not arrive as a grand decision.
It didn’t feel brave.
It didn’t feel clean.
It felt like standing in the middle of my own life, exhausted, asking myself how much longer I could keep living this way.
For a long time, I believed choosing myself meant burning bridges, cutting people off, and becoming hard.
I thought it meant becoming selfish, distant, unrecognisable.
So I avoided it.
I stayed where I was needed, where I was familiar, where I was convenient.
I'm confused about being chosen and being loved.
I confused loyalty with self-abandonment.
I confused endurance with strength.
Choosing myself began quietly, in moments no one clapped for.
It began the first time I said no and didn’t explain myself.
The first time I left without waiting for closure.
The first time I admitted that something didn’t feel right, even though I couldn’t fully articulate why.
Choosing myself felt uncomfortable.
It felt like guilt sitting in my chest, like doubt following me into every quiet moment.
I questioned myself constantly.
Am I overreacting?
Am I being dramatic?
Am I asking for too much?
But deep down, there was a knowing I could no longer ignore.
The kind that keeps you awake.
The kind that makes pretending unbearable.
I realised that every time I chose everyone else, I was teaching myself that my needs were negotiable.
That my feelings could wait.
That my peace was optional.
And it showed.
I showed up tired.
Resentful.
Disconnected from myself.
I was doing all the right things while feeling completely wrong inside.
Choosing myself meant sitting with loneliness instead of familiarity.
It meant choosing quiet over chaos.
It meant letting people misunderstand me rather than betraying myself to keep the peace.
Some people didn’t like the version of me that began choosing herself.
They called it distance.
They called it change.
They called it selfishness.
But what they really noticed was access being removed.
I was no longer available to be drained.
No longer willing to explain my boundaries to exhaustion.
No longer shrinking to make things easier for others.
Choosing myself meant accepting that not everyone would come with me.
That some people only knew how to love the version of me that stayed silent.
That some connections only survived on my over-giving.
Letting go of that hurt more than I expected.
There was grief in choosing myself.
Grief for relationships I outgrew.
For dynamics that only worked when I was smaller.
For the comfort of being needed, even when it cost me everything.
But there was also relief.
Relief in no longer carrying what was never mine.
Relief in not forcing alignment.
Relief in finally breathing without apology.
Choosing myself didn’t make my life perfect.
It made it honest.
There are still days I second-guess my choices.
Days I miss old versions of my life.
Days I wonder if staying would have been easier.
But I remind myself:
Easier is not always healthier.
Familiar is not always safe.
Choosing myself means checking in with my body, my spirit, my limits.
It means asking what feels true instead of what looks acceptable.
It means trusting myself enough to walk away even when I don’t have the full plan yet.
I am learning that choosing myself is not a one-time decision.
It is daily.
Sometimes hourly.
Sometimes moment by moment.
It is choosing rest when productivity is praised.
Choosing silence when reacting would feel satisfying.
Choosing softness in a world that rewards hardness.
It is choosing to stay when healing feels slow.
Choosing to continue when growth feels lonely.
Choosing to believe that this version of me deserves peace, too.
I am still learning.
Still unlearning.
Still finding my way.
But I know this now:
Every time I choose myself, I come home a little more.
Every time I listen to my inner voice, it grows clearer.
Every time I honour my needs, I rebuild trust in myself.
And maybe that’s what choosing yourself really is.
Not abandoning everyone else.
But finally refusing to abandon yourself.
- Writer
