#inner-child

🌟 As little babies, and then toddlers, our lives depend on validation. We need others to mirror and reflect what we feel, to know that each emotion is normal. We crave an explanation and mediation of these strange new sensations inside us—feelings. 💓

But if our surroundings never provided such validation or weren't capable of giving it, our need to feel seen and know that we are normal as we are faces a significant obstacle. 😢

However, my friend, it's never too late to learn to understand and believe to your body, your sensations, and your emotions, no matter how strange or strong they might feel. Even if they seem out of control, it might be because they, and the little you, haven't been seen for too long. 🥺

Me vs My inner-child during studying.

The lessons I had to learn to know what I know today about life, human behavior, relationships, and the power of self-love were hard. But I am grateful for them, and I enjoy sharing them with my loved ones (especially my daughter) or anyone interested. When I write my articles, I write as if I am speaking to earlier versions of myself, giving the pep talk I would have needed then. I still have…

(but I was just hearing the truth)

There were times I could hear them talking about me in the next room. I wasn’t eavesdropping. I wasn’t imagining it. I just… heard it. The way the air shifted. The way someone’s voice dropped and my name slid out like something fragile and inconvenient.

But when I brought it up, I was told I was hearing voices. Like, actual hallucinations. Like I couldn’t tell the difference between reality and a break from it.

They called it schizoaffective disorder. Put me on Latuda. I gained weight fast, felt detached from myself, and watched my body change in ways that didn’t feel like mine. No one seemed to question the diagnosis. Not the way they should’ve. Not when it came from someone with authority.

But the thing is… I wasn’t delusional. I was just alone in what I knew to be true. People were talking about me. Behind doors, in hushed tones, about my moods, my behavior, my future. And somehow the problem wasn’t them—it was me, for noticing.

That sticks with you. When your truth gets pathologized, your instincts don’t feel safe anymore. Your mind becomes a thing you’re supposed to doubt. Every time you sense something off, you ask yourself if it’s happening… or if you’ve just “gone off your meds again.”

But I know better now. The diagnosis didn’t fit. The medication didn’t help. And the “symptom” wasn’t a symptom at all—it was survival. I was a kid who noticed things. That’s it. A kid who noticed, and got punished for it.

Now, every time I second-guess myself—every time I wonder if I’m being too sensitive or paranoid—I try to remember: my sensitivity kept me alive. It’s not the enemy.

The real problem was never what I heard.

Sometimes I notice it when certain topics come up. There’s this shift in the air—small, but enough. I don’t even know if the other person did anything. Sometimes it’s probably nothing. But it still hits.

It’s like my brain just quietly lights up: someone’s paying attention now. Take note of what you just said. That’s going in the file.

I think that comes from my mom. She used to take literal notes on me. Things I said, how I acted, what time I woke up. She’d write it all down and bring it to my psychiatrist appointments. She called it “helpful.” I remember it as something else entirely.

So now, even when someone doesn’t say anything—doesn’t do anything—I still feel it. Like they’re silently taking stock. Like they’re building a version of me in their head that I’ll never get to see but still somehow be held accountable for. Even if that’s not their intention, that’s how it lands.

It’s exhausting to feel like you’re being observed all the time. Not in a big, dramatic way. Just a slow drip of awareness that you’re not moving through the world unnoticed. You’re being tallied. Assessed. Read between the lines.

And the worst part is that I still do it to myself. After an interview, I don’t even need feedback. I already know where I messed up. I’ve already run the footage back ten times before anyone else even opens their mouth.

That’s not intuition. That’s survival mode. That’s what happens when you grow up needing to know how people are reading you before they even say anything out loud.

I hate the way I crave attention. Always have. It feels embarrassing. Like something I’m supposed to outgrow. Like a secret I should be ashamed of.

Growing up, “attention-seeker” was the worst thing you could be. It wasn’t just an insult—it was a dismissal. It meant your feelings weren’t real, just performances. It meant your pain didn’t count because you were doing it for show. I internalized that hard. So I learned to swallow things. To minimize. To pretend I didn’t need much. That I was chill. Low-maintenance. Strong.

But the truth is I do want to be noticed. I want people to care. I want someone to ask how I’m doing and actually mean it. I want to be chosen, checked in on, considered. And when that doesn’t happen, I spiral. I start wondering what’s wrong with me that I still want that kind of attention so badly.

Sometimes I post things and immediately regret them—not because they weren’t honest, but because I’m afraid people will see it as a grab for validation. Like I’m pathetic for wanting to be witnessed.

But I’ve realized something: Wanting attention isn’t wrong. It just means I want to matter. It means I want my inner world to be met with presence instead of silence.

And yeah, sometimes I crave attention in messy ways. I over-explain. I overshare. I get loud when I’m hurting. I look for signs that I’m still worth holding onto. I’m working on it, but I’m also trying to forgive myself for it.

Because the real shame isn’t in wanting to be seen. It’s in the way the world taught me that wanting that made me weak.

So I’m unlearning that. Slowly. Unevenly. I’m trying to give attention to the parts of me that have always gone ignored. The parts that didn’t get soothed. The parts that shouldn’t have had to scream just to be acknowledged.

And if sometimes that comes out in a post, or a quiet cry for someone to notice—I’m not going to beat myself up over it anymore.