It doesn’t feel like such a big step now — sharing this post, this truth. Not compared to everything I’ve already said. But there’s something different about this one. It isn’t loud. It’s quiet. Devastating. Honest.

And it starts here:

I don’t want to lie to myself anymore.

I don’t want to keep holding space for the “maybes.”
Maybe my mother loved me.
Maybe my sister does.
Maybe my ex-partner did.
Maybe my friends cared.
Maybe I had friends at all.

But deep down, I know: those were stories I told myself so I didn’t fall apart.

Because the truth is: if they did love me, it was inconsistent, conditional, or distorted. It was love that left me questioning my worth, my place, my sanity.

It wasn’t the kind of love that holds you when you’re breaking. It wasn’t the kind that sees you fully and stays. It wasn’t the kind I give to my son.

And admitting that — admitting I’ve never been loved consistently — is like ripping the final bandage off a wound I’ve been carrying for decades. It’s grief on a cellular level.

But it’s also freedom.

Because if I stop waiting for love to come from people who can’t give it… maybe I can finally start building something real. Something grounded. Something honest. Not made from desperation or performance, but from presence.

If I stop lying to myself — I mean really stop — maybe there’s space for truth to grow. Maybe something solid can finally rise where the illusion used to live.

And maybe, just maybe, I can build a life not out of survival…
but out of truth.

No more crumbs.
No more maybes.
No more lies.

Just this:
I was never loved the way I needed.
And now, I will learn how.