rebelle

It doesn't matter if it's just a greeting. It'll always make me look inwards and think, how am I, really?

The answer will always be somewhere on the "not good" side of the spectrum (whatever that spectrum is). I know the appropriate answer is "good," or "fine," because the person asking isn't really wanting to know how I am doing, but it physically pains me to lie and say I'm fine when I'm not. I can't do it.

I am a great liar, but I can't lie when someone asks me how I am. It feels too raw, too exposed, like opening a wound in front of someone who just expected a wave and a smile. But I can’t keep it all inside, either.

When someone asks me how I am, a part of me wants to answer honestly. I want to say, “Actually, I’m not okay.” I want them to know that I’m not coping, that my thoughts feel too heavy, that sometimes I can barely make it through the day without collapsing under the weight of it all. I need to tell someone—someone who isn’t the relentless voice in my head—that I’m struggling.

It’s not about wanting to burden them. That’s the last thing I want. I just need to hear the words out loud. I need to feel like someone else knows, like I’m not carrying this entirely on my own. Because the more I keep it in, the louder it gets in my mind, and the harder it becomes to convince myself that I’m okay.

So when someone asks “how are you?” I hesitate. I want to scream, “I’m not fine!” but I worry about their reaction. What if they don’t care? What if I scare them off? What if my honesty makes them uncomfortable? But then I think: maybe that’s not my problem. Maybe my honesty is exactly what I need, even if it’s messy, even if it makes someone else squirm.

Because sometimes just saying it—just admitting that I’m not okay—feels like a tiny victory. It feels like I’ve broken free of the silence, even if only for a moment. And maybe, just maybe, someone will hear me and say, “I get it. You’re not alone.”

And if they don’t? If they give me a quick “oh, I’m sorry to hear that” and move on? At least I didn’t lie. At least I didn’t pretend. At least I was honest about the fact that, right now, I’m not fine—and that has to count for something.

Why are we as a society so scared to honestly tell people how we're doing? If I'm the recipient of someone honestly answering the question "how are you," (because I am also a culprit of asking it), I don't feel burdened. I think "oh, thank god I'm not alone." We may not carry the same hardships or experiences, but I can empathise with them because I know the weight your thoughts and emotions can have over you.

And maybe that’s the whole point—we’re all carrying something, but we’ve collectively decided to bury it beneath polite smiles and scripted responses. It’s like we’ve created this unspoken rule that vulnerability is too messy for casual conversation. That sharing how we really feel is somehow selfish or inappropriate, as if admitting struggle makes us weak.

But what if it didn’t? What if answering “how are you?” with honesty made us feel seen instead of ashamed? What if it created connection instead of discomfort?

It’s a reminder that the chaos in my own head isn’t unique or isolating. Someone else has been there, is there, and maybe together we can feel a little less trapped in our own silences. When someone shares their truth with me, it feels like an invitation—not to fix them or offer empty platitudes, but just to sit with them in it. To acknowledge that being human is hard and complicated and not something any of us are meant to do entirely on our own.

I think the fear of answering honestly comes from not knowing how the other person will react. What if they dismiss it? What if they pity us? What if they get uncomfortable and change the subject? But maybe the fear goes deeper. Maybe it’s because once we say it out loud—once we admit that we’re struggling—it becomes real. And that’s terrifying.

But the thing is, it’s already real. It’s already there, weighing us down. Speaking it doesn’t create the weight—it lightens it. Even if only by a fraction. Even if only for a moment.

“If you’re in a dark place, don’t worry—there’s light at the end of the tunnel!”

You’ve heard it, right? Maybe someone said it to you when you were struggling, their voice full of earnest hope. Or maybe it’s something you’ve caught yourself saying, trying to offer comfort in the face of someone else’s pain. It’s a well-worn phrase, a reflexive reassurance we’ve all been taught to give.

It’s human nature to want to fix things, to see the cracks and fill them with light, to find a way to make everything okay. Optimism, at its core, is primal. It’s wired into us—a survival mechanism designed to push us forward when the world feels unbearable.

But when you’re the one in pain, optimism can feel suffocating.

It can feel like a barrier instead of a bridge. Like the person who’s supposed to be listening has already decided how the conversation will end: with hope. With some variation of “it’ll get better,” “you’ll get through this,” “you’re stronger than you think.” And then they move on, satisfied that they’ve done their part, while you’re left drowning in the turmoil they can’t—or won’t—sit with.

It’s not that they don’t care. They do. That’s why they’re saying these things. They want you to be okay. They want to believe there’s light at the end of the tunnel because the alternative—the thought that you might be stuck in the dark forever—is too much for them to bear.

But that’s the thing: their optimism isn’t for you. It’s for them.

It’s their way of coping with the helplessness they feel when faced with your pain. Their way of reassuring themselves that the world isn’t as cruel as it seems. Their way of saying, “I can’t fix this, but I can believe it will get better.”

And while that’s not inherently bad, it can leave you feeling even more alone. Because what you needed wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel—it was someone willing to sit with you in the dark.

When someone says, “I hope it gets better,” what they mean is, “I don’t know what else to say.” It’s not that they don’t want to help; it’s that they don’t know how. So they fall back on what’s safe, what’s familiar, what they’ve been told is comforting.

But to you, stuck in your pain, it can feel like the conversation is over. Their words of affirmation become a period instead of a question, a conclusion instead of an invitation. And now you’re alone with your thoughts again, spiraling, wondering if you’re broken for not being able to reach the light they’re so sure is there.

I think about this a lot—why humans are so painfully optimistic, even in the face of someone else’s despair. And I think it comes down to empathy, as paradoxical as that might sound.

Empathy tells us that pain is unbearable, so when we see someone we care about in pain, we instinctively try to ease it. But here’s where we go wrong: we try to ease it on our terms, not theirs. We rush to fill the silence with comforting words because their pain makes us uncomfortable.

It’s not inherently malicious. It’s just human. But that doesn’t mean it’s always helpful.

Because sometimes what someone needs isn’t hope or solutions or light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes they just need you to sit there with them, to acknowledge the darkness without trying to fix it. To say, “This sucks. It’s unfair. I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I’m here.”

But that’s hard, isn’t it? To sit in someone else’s pain without trying to soften it. To accept that you can’t fix it, can’t solve it, can’t make it go away. It requires vulnerability, patience, and a willingness to confront your own discomfort. And not everyone is ready or capable of that.

So instead, they default to optimism.

And while their intentions might be good, their words can land like a slap. Because when you’re in that dark place, struggling just to make it through another hour, the promise of light can feel like an accusation. Like they’re telling you that you’re failing for not seeing it.

But here’s the thing: your pain doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. It doesn’t need to be fixed or justified or wrapped up in a hopeful bow. It’s valid because it’s real, and you’re allowed to sit with it as long as you need to.

And if someone tries to rush you toward the light, it’s okay to push back. It’s okay to say, “I don’t need hope right now. I just need you to be here with me.”

Because while optimism might be a survival mechanism, so is being heard.

And maybe if we learned to listen instead of reassure, to sit in the dark instead of rushing toward the light, we could help each other in a way that feels less like suffocation and more like solidarity.

Nailing a coffin shut, I always assumed it was a physical being. Yes, a metaphorical one, but still a person. A priest maybe, holding a hammer. I don’t know, I just see one in front of me. Or your worst human enemy. I didn’t expect my own mind to nail the coffin to my future shut, forcing me to accept a reality I’ve tried to push away for so long. To no avail, clearly, because here we are, and my coffin is being lowered down into the ground as I scream helplessly for someone to let me out. Let me go back in time. Before I ended up here. I can fix it. If I can only go back.

I slept for 16 hours yesterday. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in over 30 hours. The last thing I ate was too much candy over twenty-four hours ago. I had a coffee this morning too. I know I should eat. But I want to go back to sleep. I can’t bring myself to do the simplests of tasks.

It’s Thursday today. The fourth day of the week. I’ve only taken my antidepressants two out of four days this week. At least I think they were days. Time becomes blurry when you sleep at 10am and wake up at 11pm. And yet I’m still tired. “It’s because of your circadian rhythm,” my therapist repeats, over and over again, like I don’t already know. “You need to consume daylight, so you can sleep at night.” How about I sleep forever and never wake up.

Because that’s what I want to do sometimes. And even when I don’t want to do that, I fall asleep anyway because I’m so tired all the time. I didn’t mean to take a ten hour nap yesterday. It just happened.

I fluctuate between feeling numb, my eyes boring onto the screen with an indifference as I try to put words to the turmoil happening inside me, and crying my eyes out. Because this is it. The worst I’ve ever been. And now, my brain has officially sealed the deal for my future.

Anxiety won’t let me attend the class I need to attend today in order to complete an assignment I need in order to graduate together with the rest of my classmates next year. When I try to tell myself they’re just thoughts and that I can do it, depression laughs me in the face and envelopes me in a hug. Not the warm kind that makes you feel good. The one that sends a chill through your entire body down to the bone. The kind of hug that suffocates.

The kind of hug that whispers, You’ll never leave me. And I believe it. I believe every damn word, because it feels true. It feels final. Like there’s no point in fighting against something so much bigger and heavier than me.

But here’s the thing about coffins. They’re built for endings, yes. For finality. But they’re also a space to rest. A space to stop moving for just a moment. Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe this isn’t my permanent resting place, but a temporary reprieve from all the chaos.

Because deep down—deep, deep down—I know there’s still air in my lungs. And if there’s air, there’s a chance. Not for some grand, miraculous turnaround, but for a tiny, stubborn act of defiance. Like getting out of bed. Like pouring cereal into a bowl. Like taking my meds for no other reason than it’s what I said I’d do when I was feeling better.

One of the main symptoms of depression is feeling hopelessness. Perhaps it’s because I’m an optimist at heart, I love seeing the good in everything, but once I apply the methods my therapist taught me, to speak to myself kindly as if I’m comforting a friend going through a rough time, I can see just a tiny sliver of hope. It’s not a lot, and the lack of hope overshadows everything, but if I concentrate hard enough, I can push my worries away until tomorrow. Or next week. 

The one thing I can pride myself on is I will ask for help when it gets too bad. The only problem is I always do it too late. But acceptance is part of the healing process, I’ve realised. Once I accept that this is my reality, I can stop living in agony and start looking forward. It might not be the brightest of days ahead. There might be tough days ahead, but I have an appointment scheduled with a school advisor tomorrow, and next week, I’ve finally managed to book an appointment with my therapist after putting it off for months.

And I hope that by reaching out and talking to someone, I can figure out my next steps. Because that’s such a huge part of anxiety and depression. Thinking you know it all. From experience, I know that when you’re that upset, you can’t plan your healing journey by yourself. How could you? When all you feel is misery? You need an outside perspective.

You need someone to gently remind you that life isn’t all bad, even if it feels that way right now. Someone to help you sort through the tangled mess of your thoughts, like untangling a string of lights. It’s not easy, and it’s not quick, but with a little patience, the knots loosen.

As I’m writing this, I got a text from one of my closest friends. One of the many people I’ve pushed away these last few weeks when it has all gotten a bit too much. She asked me to please take care of myself, to eat something and be kind to myself. It warmed my heart. But then again, it also made me sad, because she must only have realised something was seriously wrong after I made a vague Twitter post about the fact I wasn’t sleeping or eating well. A call for help. 

A call for help I knew I was making. I wanted to feel seen, I think. There’s something about putting it out there, even in the vaguest terms, that feels safer than saying it directly. Like maybe someone will notice and say the right thing without me having to explain. Without me having to admit outright how much I’m struggling.

And she did notice. She saw me. Her message wasn’t long, wasn’t flowery, but it didn’t need to be. Just knowing that someone cared enough to reach out made me feel... a little less invisible. A little less lost in the fog. Maybe that’s why I post things like that sometimes. Not for attention in the shallow sense, but because it’s a way of saying, I’m here, and I don’t know how to ask for help, but I need it.

I think we all need that sometimes. To be reminded that we’re not alone in this world, even when our brains tell us otherwise. Her message didn’t fix anything—it didn’t magically make me feel okay—but it reminded me that someone out there wants me to be okay. And maybe that’s enough to start with. Maybe that’s what I needed: a small spark of connection in the middle of all this darkness.

So I’m holding onto that. To the idea that even when I feel like I’m falling apart, there are people who see the pieces and care enough to reach out. And maybe I need to learn to do that too. To be more honest when I need help. To let people in before it gets to the point of vague Twitter posts and silence.

I’m tired of feeling like I have no control over my life. I’m tired of sitting in the backseat of a car I willingly got into but can’t leave. Anxiety tied my hands and legs, locked the door and is driving towards God-knows-where, while Depression is sitting in the passenger’s seat looking back at me with those sad, puppy-eyes. 

I don’t blame Anxiety and I don’t blame Depression, because they didn’t put me in this position. I did. I mean, of course, from an outsiders’ perspective, they took advantage of me. They saw how susceptible I was to this thing I call TEWO – The Easy Way Out, also known as It’s Easier To Sleep Than Deal With Reality.

But the truth is, I handed them the keys. I let them take over because at some point, TEWO felt like a safe haven—a place where I could shut out the noise and the expectations. I told myself I deserved the rest, that the chaos outside could wait. And maybe I did, maybe it could. But the problem with TEWO is that it doesn’t just give you rest; it locks you in. It whispers to you that the world is too much, that you’re not ready, that you’ll never be ready. And the more you listen, the more you believe.

So here I am, trapped in this car, watching the scenery blur past. Sometimes it’s endless gray highways; sometimes it’s flashes of bright, beautiful things I can’t quite reach. And the saddest part? A part of me doesn’t even want to try reaching for them. It’s easier to stay here, to keep letting Anxiety drive and Depression navigate, because at least this way I don’t have to decide where I’m going.

But I’m starting to wonder if I’ve had enough. If the tiredness in my bones is no longer just exhaustion, but rebellion. What if I’ve been wrong about this car? What if the doors aren’t actually locked, and I’ve just been too scared to pull the handle? What if the keys are still in my pocket, waiting for me to take back control?

It’s terrifying to think about, because taking the wheel means acknowledging the wreckage I’ve ignored. It means owning up to the detours I’ve taken, the opportunities I’ve missed. Or maybe, it also means freedom. Freedom to make mistakes, to take wrong turns, to get lost but keep going anyway.

I don’t know if I’m ready to get out of this car yet. But I do know this: I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of giving away my power, tired of pretending the backseat is enough for me. And maybe that’s the first step. Just admitting that I want something more, even if I don’t know what it looks like yet.

I’ve always found it strange how we’re taught to grieve for tangible losses—a person, a place, a thing—but never for the intangible. Nobody tells you how to mourn the parts of yourself you’ve outgrown, or the life you thought you’d have, or the innocence that quietly slipped away when you weren’t paying attention. It’s an ache without a name, a grief that doesn’t fit into tidy boxes like funerals or goodbyes. And yet, it lingers, just as heavy, just as real.

I feel like that type of grief is often closely related to nostalgia. Or rather that nostalgia is, amongst other things, the experience of grieving the past. But it’s not just about longing for what was—it’s about grieving what never was. The version of your life that didn’t come to pass, the connections you hoped for but never formed. For me, it’s the emotional relationship I never had with the male members of my family, particularly my father.

Growing up, I never experienced the father-daughter bond I’d see in movies or hear about from friends. My dad was always emotionally unavailable—distant in a way I couldn’t name as a child but felt keenly in the space between us. I’ve recently learned that when I was 2 or 3 years old, he was in and out of the hospital due to his cancer. During those formative years, my world revolved around my mom, not my dad. And as I piece these things together as an adult, I can’t help but wonder how those early days shaped me. Did I subconsciously decide, even as a toddler, that I couldn’t rely on male figures for emotional connection? Did I carry that into my relationships later on?

The grief here isn’t just for the past; it’s for the ripple effects it has in the present. I grieve the father I wish I had, the kind of dad who would have taught me how to trust male figures, how to feel secure in their presence. But I also grieve the way that absence shaped me into someone who still struggles with those connections today. It’s not a straightforward pain. It’s layered with love, disappointment, and a quiet understanding that sometimes people can’t give you what you need—not because they don’t care, but because they didn’t know how.

This kind of grief is tricky because it’s not rooted in a single event or moment. It’s a slow, quiet loss that stretches across years, shaping you in ways you don’t realize until you look back. And when you do, it’s not just sadness you feel—it’s a mix of everything: anger, longing, confusion, acceptance. You grieve what you didn’t have, what you didn’t know to ask for, and what you’ll never fully get back.

And yet, in grieving, there’s also clarity. There’s a sense of giving yourself permission to name the loss, even if it feels abstract. To say, “This mattered. This hurt. And I’m allowed to feel it.” Because mourning isn’t just about closure—it’s about honouring the weight of what was missing, even if it can’t be replaced.

But how do you fix something so… floating? Something so abstract and unfathomable for a lot of people. How do I tell people I grieve the loving father-daughter relationship I never had? People respond, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and it feels comforting, until I realise they assume my father is gone. But I’m not talking about the physical presence of my dad. I’m talking about the absence of a loving connection between us. 

How do you grieve something that technically exists but doesn’t feel whole? It’s not a loss in the traditional sense—it’s not someone who passed away or a relationship that was severed. It’s something more elusive: the absence of what could have been, of what you needed but didn’t receive. It’s mourning potential. It’s grieving love that never bloomed in the ways you hoped it would.

I’ve tried to explain this to others before, and it’s always met with a kind of confusion. People are quick to console when they think you’ve lost someone physically. They know how to respond when grief has a name and a date. But when you tell them, “I’m grieving a bond that was never there,” they don’t know what to say. It’s like trying to describe the shape of an empty space, a void that only you can see.

And maybe that’s what makes this kind of grief so isolating. It’s hard to articulate, hard to validate, even to yourself. You start to question whether it’s fair to feel this way. After all, my dad was there, right? He worked hard, he provided for us, he was present in the ways he knew how to be. So why does it still feel like something is missing? Why does it hurt so much to see other father-daughter relationships filled with warmth and emotional closeness?

That’s the thing about intangible grief—it doesn’t adhere to logic. You can’t reason your way out of it. It lingers, sneaking into quiet moments, catching you off guard when you least expect it. It’s in the way your heart aches during Father’s Day commercials or when a friend talks about their dad being their rock. It’s in the little pang of envy you feel when you see those bonds you never had, knowing they represent something you’ll always yearn for.

I’ve also frequently grieved the way my life could have looked if I didn’t have anxiety. If my depression didn’t make me sleep all day to escape the real world. Sleeping At Last once sang “How do I forgive myself for losing so much time?,” and I can’t help but relate so hard it feels like my heart is going to cave in on itself in pain. 

How do you cope with such grievances? I wish I knew, but I’m learning that coping doesn’t always mean finding answers. Sometimes, it’s about sitting with the pain and letting it exist without trying to solve it. Grieving intangible losses—whether it’s a relationship, a version of yourself, or time you’ll never get back—isn’t something you can fix. It’s something you have to feel, piece by piece, day by day.

For me, part of coping has been allowing myself to mourn without guilt. To acknowledge that these feelings are valid, even if they don’t fit into the conventional mold of loss. I remind myself that grief isn’t a competition—it doesn’t have to be “big enough” or visible to others to matter. It matters because it matters to me.

I also try to focus on what I can rebuild, even if it’s just in small ways. I might never get the father-daughter relationship I longed for, but I can work on fostering meaningful connections with others. I can let myself feel the hurt without letting it harden me. I can remind myself that grieving isn’t about staying stuck in the past—it’s about making peace with it so I can carry it differently.

As for the time lost to anxiety and depression, I try to show myself the same compassion I would offer a friend. It’s easy to blame myself for the days spent hiding under the covers or the moments I missed because I was too overwhelmed to participate in life. But blaming myself doesn’t change the past—it only adds to the weight I’m already carrying. Instead, I try to focus on the moments I can reclaim, even if they’re small. A walk outside, a conversation with a friend, a little step forward.

I think that’s the hardest part about grieving intangible losses: the fact that there’s no closure, no finality. It’s a process, not a destination. It’s messy and nonlinear, and some days it feels like you’re back at the beginning. But even in those moments, there’s a kind of resilience in simply continuing. In saying, “I’m still here, and I’m still trying.”

I’ve always found it fascinating how our childhood shapes us as adults. It’s so puzzling to me how incidents we think we’ve acknowledged and dealt with can still haunt us subconsciously.

One example is my compulsive need to poke my head out of the shower every few minutes to make sure no one has broken into the apartment. Sometimes I even have to lock the bathroom door, even though the apartment front door is locked and I live alone. Who’s coming into the bathroom while I’m showering?

Yet I know it became a habit after my seven year older brother continuously snuck into the bathroom while I was showering when we both lived with our parents to scare me. I never used to lock the bathroom door. Then he started sneaking in to scare me by punching the shower curtain out of nowhere. I thought I could stop him by locking the bathroom door. He started picking the lock to sneak in and do the same thing. So I started my habit of peeking out of the shower. That started when I was in my early teenage years. As I’m writing this, I’m 22, and I still do it.

It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I know logically that I’m safe. I know my brother isn’t about to pick the lock of an apartment he doesn’t even live in (and that is 3 hours away), just to punch my shower curtain for old times’ sake. But habits like this aren’t logical—they’re survival instincts your brain refuses to let go of. Even when the “threat” is long gone, your body remembers.

I think about this a lot: the way our minds and bodies hold on to these echoes of the past, even after we’ve told ourselves, “That was years ago. I’m fine now.” But am I fine? Sure, my brother’s antics seem harmless when I tell the story now—he’d probably laugh and call me dramatic—but at the time, it was terrifying. It was that kind of sharp, primal fear that makes your heart race and your fight-or-flight instincts kick in. And for a teenage girl, trapped behind a flimsy curtain, it felt like an invasion. Straight out of Psycho.

I wonder how many other little quirks I have that are rooted in experiences like that—things I don’t even think about anymore but that still affect how I navigate the world. Maybe the way I instinctively glance over my shoulder when I walk home at night after being harassed by a man who had an interest in violent hobbies, or how I startle when someone raises their hand towards me for a high five, because that hand looks awfully similar to the one that once hit me in my face out of nowhere.

These habits become so ingrained that they start to feel like a part of who you are, but they’re really just shadows of who you used to be. Shadows of a version of yourself who needed to stay alert, to be prepared for anything.

But how do you move past it? How do you convince your brain that it’s safe to relax now? I’m not sure I have the answer yet. Maybe it’s just a matter of time. Or maybe it’s about learning to have a conversation with those shadows, acknowledging them instead of trying to push them away. Like saying, “Hey, I see you. I know you’re here because you were trying to protect me. But we’re okay now. You don’t have to work so hard anymore.”

And maybe, one day, I’ll stand in the shower and feel like I can close my eyes without worrying. Until then, I guess I’ll keep peeking out. Old habits die hard, after all.

Perhaps habits can teach us to be more understanding. But being understanding doesn’t equate to excusing or forgiving someone. It can merely act as an explanation, and we can all have compassion for even the most horrible people. Or rather, as I’d like to think of it, we have compassion for their tragic experiences. If we understand why people are the way they are, how their experiences shape their lives, then aren’t we getting closer to understanding humanity, which is, debatably, one of the biggest questions out there.

It’s a strange paradox, isn’t it? The idea that understanding someone doesn’t mean condoning their actions. You can hold compassion in one hand and accountability in the other. I think about this a lot, especially when reflecting on my own habits and the experiences that shaped them. If I can trace my quirks and fears back to specific events, can’t others do the same? Doesn’t everyone, in some way, carry the weight of their own shadows?

But here’s where it gets tricky: where do we draw the line? At what point does understanding someone’s past stop justifying their present actions? It’s one thing to say, “I get why you’re like this,” but another entirely to say, “And it’s okay for you to keep being this way.” The balance is delicate, and I think it starts with the acknowledgment that everyone’s humanity is messy and imperfect—including our own.

I’ve tried to apply this lens to myself, too. Instead of berating myself for being overly cautious, I’ve started to look at these habits with curiosity. What are they trying to tell me? Maybe my tendency to peek out of the shower isn’t just a leftover fear—it’s a reminder that my mind and body are capable of keeping me safe. Maybe the shadows of my past don’t just haunt me; they teach me. They remind me of resilience, of boundaries I’ve learned to set, of the ways I’ve grown.

That understanding, though, doesn’t mean I want to live like this forever. I don’t want to carry these shadows into every shower, every dark street, every raised hand. I want to learn how to set them down, gently, like putting away an old coat I no longer need to wear. Maybe that’s what growth really is: not banishing our pasts, but learning how to coexist with them without letting them define us.

But that’s easier said than done, and I think I have somewhat of an unpopular opinion on this matter, because I believe we, as conscious humans, should exercise our right of feeling sorry for ourselves. And while maybe it is a “hot take,” I don’t think it’s that hard to understand. By simply experiencing and focusing on the hurt we’ve endured, we get an outlet for our emotions, which in turn can help us heal in the long term.

Saying something like that unfounded, is of course… diabolical. But it’s not unfounded. Studies have proven over and over again that letting out your feelings, whether through talking, writing, or even crying, is an essential part of processing trauma and moving forward. Bottling things up doesn’t make the shadows go away—it just pushes them deeper into the corners of your mind, where they quietly take root and grow. Acknowledging your pain, even sitting with it for a while, is not weakness. It’s human.

And let’s be real: our society doesn’t make it easy. We’re constantly told to “move on” and “stay positive,” as if emotions are hurdles to leap over instead of waves to ride. But ignoring what’s underneath doesn’t make it disappear. It’s like covering a crack in the wall with a fresh coat of paint—eventually, it’ll resurface, bigger and more complicated than before.

Feeling sorry for yourself gets a bad rap because people conflate it with self-pity. But there’s a key difference. Self-pity is wallowing without purpose, a kind of stuckness that doesn’t move you forward. Feeling sorry for yourself, on the other hand, is an acknowledgment: “I went through something hard, and it’s okay to feel hurt about that.” It’s a step toward self-compassion. It’s saying to yourself what you might say to a friend: “That really sucks. No wonder you feel this way.”

But you know what’s even more of a hot take? Sometimes, I think self-pitying is necessary too. It sounds counterproductive, doesn’t it? Like I’m advocating for a wallowing pity party. But hear me out—there’s a difference between indulging in self-pity as a means of staying stuck and using it as a stepping stone toward understanding and healing. Sometimes, you have to let yourself feel the full weight of everything before you can put it down. You can’t clean up a mess you won’t even look at.

And the reality is that by looking in disdain at self-pity, we’re denying people their right to hurt. And it is a right. Because it’s a core part of us as humans. Someone who has tripped and broken their leg, screaming in pain, is going to pity themselves, because the pain isn’t merely a physical sensation. Pain is so raw and innate that it becomes us, and sometimes when the pain gets so extreme, you pity yourself without shame because what else can you do?

But when the pain isn’t physical—when it’s emotional or psychological—society expects something different. We’re told to bottle it up, to keep it together, to be “strong” and “resilient,” as if those traits are defined by our ability to suppress our own suffering. Worse, when the source of that pain is something like assault, harassment, or trauma, shame piles onto the already unbearable weight.

For victims of sexual assault, this shame can feel like a second attack. It sneaks in quietly, whispering lies like, “You should have done something differently,” or, “This was your fault.” Society, in all its victim-blaming glory, reinforces this. Questions like, “What were you wearing?” or, “Why didn’t you fight back?” shift the blame onto the survivor, creating a feedback loop of guilt and shame that can take years—sometimes a lifetime—to untangle.

And when you’re already battling that shame, self-pity feels dangerous. It feels like giving in. You tell yourself you don’t deserve to feel sorry for yourself because, somehow, you’ve internalised the idea that what happened was your fault. But it wasn’t. It never was. And yet, that shame sits there, festering, making you believe that even feeling hurt is a kind of indulgence you’re not entitled to.

But here’s the thing: self-pity, in those moments, is not indulgence—it’s survival. It’s a small, quiet rebellion against the shame that’s trying to silence you. It’s a way of saying, “I didn’t deserve this. I was hurt, and that matters.” It’s reclaiming your right to grieve for what was taken from you, to acknowledge the weight of what you’re carrying, and to validate your own pain in a world that might try to minimize it.

I think about how this cycle of shame keeps people trapped. How it convinces them that their trauma is their own fault and that they should be strong enough to “get over it” without ever letting themselves feel the full depth of their pain. But healing doesn’t work like that. You can’t bypass the hard parts. You can’t skip over the anger, the sadness, the self-pity, and expect to come out whole on the other side. Those emotions aren’t roadblocks—they’re stepping stones.

It’s infuriating to me how deeply shame is ingrained in these experiences. It’s not enough to go through something horrific—you’re then expected to carry the weight of society’s judgments on top of it. And while I wish I could wave a magic wand and erase that shame for every survivor out there, the truth is that the work of healing is messy and personal. It’s about learning, slowly and painfully, that the shame doesn’t belong to you. It never did.

So, yes, sometimes you’ll feel sorry for yourself. Sometimes you’ll cry for the person you used to be, the innocence you lost, the trust that was shattered. And that’s okay. That’s necessary. Because every tear you shed, every moment of self-pity you allow yourself, is a step toward reclaiming your narrative. It’s a way of saying, “This happened to me, but it doesn’t define me.”

so crazy

but i recently stopped posting 10 times a day (i want to get back to it but i'm stressed af rn) and it's so interesting how the follower count has slowed down. cuz everytime i up it to 10 again, i rapidly gain followers.

sooo it's only 4pm but i'd like to do some reflection rn cuz the hardest thing for me to do amongst the things on the list is working out. but i did!!! i'm not sure if i did 30 mins, i was supposed to go to the gym but i procrastinated in bed too long and ran out of time so i had to do a workout at home

did at least 20mins of just dance. maneater is the best song on there fr i love that dance (it's easy and i can't dance).

rebelle's 30 day DEMURE glow-up challenge ♡₊ ⊹

workout:

at least 30 minutes of exercise (dancing, strength training, yoga, walking, etc.)

hydration:

drink 2 liters of water :3 stay hydrated, pookie.

mindful eating:

focus on whole, yummy (healthy, if that's what you want) foods, but no stressing over it! it’s not about restricting (*≧ω≦) it's okay to treat yourself~ be mindful of what you eat, but don’t obsess <3 we're not falling back into unhealthy eating habits! if this is too hard for u if you have a history of obsessing over diets, literally skip this part and just eat normally.

skincare routine:

morning and night: cleanse, moisturize, and don’t forget your sunscreen in the morning (✿◠‿◠)

active hobby:

dedicate 30 minutes to a hobby that brings you joy (writing, djing, playing with your cats) (^o^) no passive stuff like scrolling social media !! (i mean you can doomscroll but not during your allocated 30 minute hobby time!!)

mindfulness/gratitude:

spend 5-10 minutes meditating, journaling, or reflecting on things you're grateful for (✿´‿`) orrrr if ur like me just write down random thoughts in a notebook, it doesn't have to be so serious!!

progress photo:

take a cute daily pic to track your progress. it's about celebrating little changes, not perfection!

limit screen time before bed:

reduce screen use 30 minutes before sleeping to get that good beauty sleep (✿◠‿◠) maybe read book instead or tire out ur pets so they sleep through the night (and let you sleep through the night too)

track record for reflection: