Today I want to create a raw piece based on the things that I still struggle to integrate into my own life. 

This is for everyone who is actively trying to become the best version of themselves, inside and out, but still has room to learn and grow.

We are all works in progress and we deserve grace while we become whole.

Life is a journey, that we each take at our own pace.

When I started writing pieces for the blog, my intent was to help people have a better understanding of their inner voice, through reading my personal experiences of self discovery. And while that is still my purpose, something started happening to me internally. 

By re reading my pieces, I was forced to look at the patterns that I am still repeating today. And I realized something important, that my brain and nervous system spent so many years living in survival mode, that it changed my wiring. 

I seek these familiar experiences because even when chaotic, they still feel like home.

I don’t want to be the kind of woman who says she’s healed and then keeps choosing men who don’t choose her.

But here I am.

I tell myself I’m self aware now. 

I understand attachment. 

I understand nervous system wiring. 

I can articulate my wounds in beautiful language. 

I can write pieces about growth and integration.

And yet…

When a man pulls away, something ancient inside me wakes up.

Not panic exactly. Not even fear. More like recognition.

There is it, that feeling, the one that feels like home.

The silence.

The distance.

The subtle shift in tone.

I feel it in my chest before I see it in reality. And instead of stepping back, I lean in.

I send the text.

I soften my voice.

I become more understanding.

More patient.

More available.

As if love is something I can earn by being less demanding.

And the hardest truth?

No one has asked me to do that. I’m volunteering.

I am the one carrying the weight of three separate connections right now.

I am the one initiating.

I am the one interpreting breadcrumbs as effort.  

I am the one translating silence into “he’s just overwhelmed.”

I tell myself he’s busy.

I tell myself he’s stressed.

I tell myself he’s different.

And I have done this my entire adult life. Loving men who cannot meet me. Calling it depth. Calling it loyalty. Calling it hope.

But if I’m honest.

It’s familiar.

My nervous system doesn’t light up for stability. It lights up for pursuit. 

For earning, for proving, for almost.

Almost chosen. Almost prioritized. Almost safe.

Why am I reaching for men who are pulling away?

Because chasing feels powerful, and receiving feels exposed. And if they fully choose me, I would have to believe I’m worth staying for.

That is the part I’m still trying to integrate. 

It’s not failure or hypocrisy. 

It’s growing pains.

You can know better and still not do better yet. 

You can see the pattern and still feel the pull. 

You can love yourself and still abandon yourself in subtle ways.

Healing is not linear. It’s layered. And sometimes growth looks like catching yourself mid pattern and whispering, “Oh. There you are again.”

Not with shame, but with honesty.

And with this awareness, maybe, just maybe, the next time he pulls away…

I won’t reach.