When Praise Feels Like a Trick
Sometimes praise feels more dangerous than pain.
Not because I don’t want it—because I do. But because I never really learned how to receive it without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It’s easier to be used. Easier to be hurt. At least that makes sense in my nervous system. At least I know what to expect. But when someone calls me good, or sweet, or tells me I’m doing well, part of me shuts down. Like I can’t trust it. Like maybe it’s a setup. Or maybe they’re just saying it to get something. Or maybe they’ll take it back once they really see me.
Praise hits something soft in me that doesn’t know how to come to the surface without shame. There’s a part of me that wants to melt into those words, to really let them land—but instead I flinch. I deflect. I rush to prove I deserve it, or I push it away before it can be taken from me.
Sometimes I crave the kind of praise that feels earned through obedience or pain, because that at least feels legible. I can tell myself they meant it because I bled for it. But what I’m still learning is how to hold praise that isn’t tied to performance.
The kind that says, you’re good—not because I served perfectly or suffered beautifully, but because I exist, and I let someone see me.
And I haven’t figured out how to believe that yet. But I want to.
