What parts of me are still waiting for something—an apology, validation, understanding?

What parts? I’m not entirely sure. I know I never truly felt understood. There was logic, rationalisation, explanations—but not a full meeting of the emotional weight I carried. That’s what I missed. Being truly seen.

I longed for someone who would simply know—who would notice my exhaustion and say, from kindness alone, go to bed, love, I’ve got the children. Somehow, there was always a catch. A tone. An undercurrent. As if rest came with a silent cost. The words might have been there, but the actions didn’t fully align. I’m still waiting for that understanding.

But will that ever truly come from another person? Probably not. No one will fully understand—I have to do that for myself. And yet, there is still a yearning to be fully seen by someone else. That tension is frustrating.

Other connections surface in my mind—moments where I didn’t feel held during pain or irritation. Where space wasn’t made. Where the connection was simply allowed to fade without curiosity, without wanting to understand or clarify. I wonder whether I was ever truly seen there either, or whether the idea of me was loved more than the reality. Often, the give and take felt uneven. Once something was received, the dynamic shifted into taking. That hurt.

I see patterns in this. The saviour energy that dissolves once intimacy is real. The retreat once vulnerability is met. And when I look at all of these connections together, I realise something important: my focus cannot keep living there. I want to be an independent being—self-validating, self-seeing. I am capable of witnessing myself. I am whole. Loving. Emotionally alive. Someone who would show up for others in true need.

Still, letting go is hard. I dreamed of a family, of a future, of a potential that now needs releasing. I know I must create a new vision. I can almost see it, but I’m still in the liminal space—the in-between of who I was and who I am becoming.

How did this long-term connection shape my identity, and what version of me is ready to be born without it?

It shaped me through reliance—on shared responsibility, on external structure, on another’s logic. Daily life, practical matters, moral support. It mirrored a logical mind I wanted to cultivate within myself. And I have developed it, yes—but I’ve also learned something essential: my heart is more valuable than anything my mind could ever produce.

It shaped me by making me doubt my own steps forward. I learned to second-guess myself because there was always another perspective offered—another way of seeing things. Over time, that eroded my confidence. I felt small. Childlike. As if my instincts needed correction.

Why did it land that way? Perhaps not because support was offered—but because of how it was delivered. There was a tone that felt condescending. A dynamic that echoed a parent-child relationship rather than an equal partnership. That dynamic, among many things, broke us.

I recognise now that I once leaned heavily on masculine energy to support and provide—a pattern rooted in an early absence. I sought it elsewhere. But now, that’s no longer what I’m seeking. What I notice instead is a longing to feel wanted. Desired. Beautiful. And again, I see the pattern: allowing others to make me feel whole.

Yet I know the truth. I am the only one who can truly give myself that validation.

I am the bridge. I am the one weaving magic into the ordinary. I am strength embodied.

Leaving took courage. Ending something that no longer worked took courage. It hurts deeply—especially the words that surface now, the rewriting of history, the delayed honesty. There is grief in knowing how long unhappiness was carried in silence. And yet—I chose truth. I broke the cycle. I stepped away from inherited endurance and quiet suffering.

For that, I am proud of myself.

I am a wayfinder. Someone brave enough to stop walking a path that no longer leads anywhere. And yet, even as I write this, I notice the doubt—this voice that says this sounds like a pep talk. Words I know to be true, but struggle to remember in moments of emotional attack.

When harsh words are spoken, I want to react. I want to return the fire. I want awareness to land—to wake the other to the pain caused, not only to others, but to themselves. Perhaps that hurts too—that I cared. That there is still care. That children carry reflections forward.

There is grief in watching someone hurt themselves by refusing to feel.

I release the contract where I believed I had to shrink to fit another’s narrative.

I release the contract where I believed I had to be perfect, always right, always ahead.

I release the contract where I believed I had to outperform, outthink, outgrow in order to be safe.

I reclaim the energy I gave away when I doubted myself.

When I bent to others’ desires while silencing my own.

When I went to bed hurt and alone.

When I stayed quiet instead of speaking my truth.

When I ignored my instincts in favour of someone else’s logic.

When I feel triggered, what is my body trying to tell me? How can I meet it with curiosity instead of reaction?

My heart races. Heat floods my body. My hands shake. There is an urge to hit, to break, to fight. This is my nervous system preparing for battle—not flight. And that response, in itself, is brave. It wants to stand its ground. To protect. To face the threat directly.

I can meet this signal by naming it: I am ready to fight right now.

That makes sense. I spent years defending my intuition, my feelings, my inner knowing. But I am no longer in that fight. I am separate now. Off the board. I do not play this game.

Silence may be the sharpest boundary. Truth can still be named—but with the awareness that dismantling words may follow, because that is the only language some people know. Expectation protects me. Grounding protects me.

What would it mean to be seen and felt by my own self—the witness I never had? What would she say to me now?

She would say:

You are remarkable.

You carry so many talents, so many ways of seeing.

Your perception—colourful, layered, alive—is not ordinary.

You have always been a creator, someone who brings inner worlds into form.

You feel deeply—people, places, energies. That is not weakness. That is weight, and it takes practice to carry it. I understand why it has been hard.

You do not need to explain who you are. Many will never understand it. You have always been different—tuned to something larger, deeper, more subtle than most can imagine.

You are meant for something greater. To move humanity gently toward remembering. Toward union. Toward awareness.

You are kind. You are funny. You brighten spaces without trying. You are sometimes misunderstood—but I see you. I see your full field. The depth. The emotional charge. The way you turn ordinary life into something sacred.

You are timeless. The universe lives inside you.

You are seen.

I see you—fully, wholly, and without condition.