#behindthewalls

Let love come as it is unrushed, unforced, steady in its arrival. Let it knock gently, not demanding to be let in, but waiting patiently at the threshold, offering warmth without expectation. Let it find you in the quiet moments, in the soft hum of a morning where the air is still, where the world hasn’t yet asked anything of you. Let it be in the small gestures, the way fingers brush together absentmindedly, the way eyes soften in unspoken understanding. Love doesn’t always arrive wrapped in fireworks; sometimes, it’s in the spaces where silence feels safe.

Let it meet you where you are, not asking you to be anything more or less than what you already are. Let it sit beside your fears without trying to erase them, let it weave itself into your story without rewriting your past. Let it see the parts of you still learning how to trust, still hesitant to believe in forever, and let it stay anyway. This love, let it be different. Let it be the kind that doesn’t just burn bright but lasts. A love that doesn’t rush to prove itself, that doesn’t chase perfection, but lingers through the ordinary,the grocery store runs, the lazy Sunday afternoons, the moments between conversations when nothing is said but everything is understood. Let it be a love that holds space. A love that chooses presence over promises, that shows up not just in the grand gestures but in the quiet consistencies, in the way it never makes you question if you are too much or not enough.

Lately, I have been drowning in my own insecurities, swallowed whole by the quiet ache of comparison. Social media has a way of holding up a distorted mirror, and every time I look, I see reflections that don’t feel like mine. These effortless beauties, radiant and confident, leave me wondering, why don’t I look like that? Why don’t I move through the world with that kind of certainty? These questions cling to me like ivy, wrapping around my thoughts, suffocating my sense of self. I thought I had come far enough in my journey of self-love that these feelings wouldn’t consume me anymore. I was wrong, the weight of old wounds has threatened to pull me under once more.

Worse, I fear my insecurities are creeping into the spaces where love should be twisting into doubts that threaten the relationship I cherish.I am being chased by something I'm afraid I won't be able to escape, an old shadow I thought I had left behind. What if this part of me, the one that whispers I am not enough, is strong enough to tear everything apart?

Last night, I called my dad. Through the thick fog of my thoughts, his words cut through like sunlight breaking a storm. He reminded me that we are all different—our features, our personalities, our essence. In my rush to compare, I had forgotten that beauty isn’t a singular thing, that no one version of it is more real than another.

He told me I was beautiful, that my height alone made me striking. It made me laugh through my tears. He told me social media isn’t real, filters smooth away imperfections, lighting hides flaws, and even confidence can be carefully curated. And then, he said something that really stayed with me: If you want to change, you always can. But don’t waste your energy trying to control things that don’t need fixing. When I hung up, I felt lighter. The weight on my chest hadn’t disappeared, but it had shifted, loosened. And as I sat with his words, something clicked.

There is no one else in the world who is me. No one else who feels the way I do, who carries these thoughts, this depth, this quiet strength. My perspective, my experiences, both the good and the painful, are mine alone. My face, my body, my existence is a result of generations of love, of people before me who lived and hoped and brought me into this world. My pain is mine, my joy is mine, my journey is mine, all of it belongs uniquely to me.

Learning to love myself is never easy, it is an uphill climb, full of slips and stumbles. But self-love is not a single battle won, it is a tide, retreating and returning, soft and relentless all at once. There will always be someone more beautiful, more talented, more confident. But that does not make me any less worthy. And I refuse to let comparisons steal the peace I have fought so hard to build. I am my own person, one who loves deeply, who sees beauty in the small and the unnoticed, who appreciates the world in ways only I can. And I think that in itself,is a kind of beauty no filter can recreate. 

Maybe that’s just what it means to be human. To feel everything deeply. To long for reassurance. To forget my own light, only to rediscover it again.

It’s like I was born with a hole in my chest, a quiet kind of suffering that no amount of joy, no fleeting moment of warmth, can seem to fill. But happiness slips through me like water cupped in trembling hands, seeping through the cracks before I even have a chance to hold onto it.

The void is eating me alive. Slowly, methodically. I feel it in my throat, like invisible hands tightening around my voice, making it harder to breathe, harder to speak. My mind is a clenched fist, pressing in from all sides, crushing any stray thought that dares to reach for the light.

And the worst part? I bring it with me wherever I go.

I sabotage the people who care, not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to stop. I watch myself push them away, watch their kindness slip into the abyss inside me, swallowed whole by something I don’t even understand. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want my darkness to stain them, to pull them down with me.

But I fear that, eventually, my darkness will swallow them whole. I fear that they’ll get pulled into this abyss, and I can’t bear that.

I wonder sometimes, how can a void feel so heavy? It’s as if it sits on my chest, choking the breath from my lungs. Every thought, every word, feels like it’s trapped in a tight squeeze. My mind and my throat both ache, pressed in on all sides by something I can’t even see, only feel.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. And one thing keeps coming up that’s hard to shake off: Why do I feel like I have to hold back when I love? Why does it seem like, in order for someone to show they love me back, I have to hide parts of myself, dial it down, or, even worse, keep some of my feelings locked away? It’s funny, isn’t it? We talk about love like it’s supposed to be this free, wild thing—unpredictable, passionate, completely open. But, in reality, sometimes it feels like we’re expected to measure it, like love only counts if it's contained somehow. And if you give too much, too soon, or too intensely, you’re the one who ends up feeling too much. Too overwhelming. Too much of a risk.

I’ve caught myself doing this—holding back when I want to give. The fear of being too much. The worry that if I show all of myself, it won’t be welcomed. It makes me question if maybe I’m not enough, or worse—if who I am, when I’m fully myself, is too much for someone else. And that’s a hard thing to deal with. Because loving freely is beautiful, right? But why does it sometimes feel like an act of vulnerability that leaves me exposed, unsure, and almost apologetic for feeling so deeply?

And it’s this struggle that I think a lot of people deal with, too. Why can’t love just be what it is, raw and honest, without having to hold back? Why does it feel like I’m supposed to withhold parts of myself for fear of overwhelming someone, instead of just letting my feelings flow naturally?