For a long time, I thought it was me.

I thought I was too much. Too intense. Too eager. Too analytical.
Too soft. Too closed. Too open. Too emotional. Too distant.
Too something.

Because the feedback I kept receiving—people stepping back, people disconnecting, people not fully opening up—seemed to point to one thing:

I wasn’t good enough to be close to.

And that stayed with me. It shaped the way I saw myself. The way I showed up. The way I doubted the moments that felt warm or promising. The way I pulled back just as someone might lean in.

But what I’m seeing now—what has knocked the breath out of me in recent days—is that it wasn’t me.

It was the strategy.

It was the part of me that had to believe I was loved by my mother. That she was good. That I was lovable.

And to preserve that belief, I unconsciously shaped myself into someone helpful, insightful, emotionally flexible—someone who could earn affection by offering something first. I became the fixer. The emotional translator. The internalized parent.

And that strategy worked—until it didn’t.

Because over time, the very thing that helped me survive also pushed people away. Not because I was bad, but because I wasn’t fully there. I was still protecting myself. Still leading with adaptation. Still holding onto a version of myself I developed as a child so I wouldn’t have to feel the grief of not being loved the way I needed.

That grief is here now.

And strangely, it’s a relief.
Because now I can stop pretending.
Now I can stop performing.
Now I can stop trying so hard to be good enough for closeness.

Because I was always enough.

And the people I’ve lost along the way—some may return, some may not.
But I can meet whoever comes next from a different place. A quieter place.

Not to fix.
Not to impress.
Not to be chosen.

Just to be seen. And to stay.

Because it was never that I was too much.
Or not enough.
Or fundamentally unlovable.

It was just a strategy.

And now, I can let it go.