Reclaiming Your Time & Energy

For years I have felt like the only way for me to be taken seriously, be seen as a kind person, or have any value- is for me to give myself to others. Somewhere along the way I learned that my inherent value to others was martyrdom and sacrifice. Maybe I learned it from my mother who never knew when to stop (to the detriment of her family), or maybe through the endless times I was called selfish for setting boundaries and saying no.  Regardless of how this message weaved itself into my very being, I'm learning lately of how very destructive martyrdom is. It isn't honourable at all.


I've always known that my co-dependency was a problem, like yes hello I'm needy as hell in relationships and would put anyone before myself if they would just please like me. I put the emotional needs of absolutely everyone before me because I'm a control freak and if I can control how people view me (nice, kind, generous, good woman) then I can feel comfortable about who I am. As long as everyone on the outside validated me as good I could somehow override the self-hate aka the bigger issue. How liberating it is to realize that the only person's opinion that matters is your own. And like, duh, right? But that is so much easier said than done. If we all truly understood that our own belief in ourselves was the most important part of life there would be far fewer people dying with unrealized dreams. How many of us are living to appease someone else's idea of who we should be? How many of us aren't speaking our truth because we're busy managing everyone else's emotions?

I mean I'm sure you've noticed but there is SOME KINDA FIRE burning inside of me and it's like I'm being set free. I don't even know how to describe it I just feel like I'm coming back into my body and reclaiming who I am. Reclaiming my real identity and personality instead of the one I constructed to keep me palatable and safe for years. 


I've played the hypersexual, man-hating wounded feminine.

I've played the white saviour.

I've played the self-hating, mentally-ill martyr.

I've played the tortured daughter. 

I've played the recluse, the hermit, the ghost.


All of those stages of who I became confronted different parts of my trauma. My anger towards men, my guilt as a white person, my mother wound, my suicidal ideation, and my inability to forgive. Each stage of my unravelling was excruciatingly painful and each time I was brought into another shift I didn't think I would make it through. 


And yet here I am.


This next stage I'