It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote an article. Life’s been full. Between a lingering cold, work, and having my adult kids home for a few days (which filled me up and wore me out in equal measure), I just haven’t had the space to sit down and write the way I wanted to.

Recently, I came across an old diary entry I wrote during one of the hardest periods I can remember. It was after a night with family where I felt deeply uncomfortable just being myself. I spent the whole evening trapped in my own body, hyper-aware of every word, every gesture, censoring myself so I wouldn’t stand out, wouldn’t be “too much,” and wouldn’t make anyone else uncomfortable.

But in trying so hard to manage how I was perceived, I ended up coming off cold, standoffish, maybe even uninterested. In all honesty, I felt completely unwelcome. And my overthinking only made it worse. I left that night feeling ashamed, not because of anything I did, but because I had disappeared myself in the process.

This was the night I decided I couldn’t keep doing it. The night I decided to start working on fixing what felt broken within me. Not because I was broken, but because the version of me I had learned to be was choking the life out of who I really was.

What follows is the entry I wrote to myself in the thick of that unraveling, lightly edited for clarity and legibility.

[Date intentionally omitted]

Why can’t I stop being the “easy” one?

I’m trying. God, I’m trying. But it’s like my whole body is wired around that role. To be the good one. The quiet one. The one who doesn’t start trouble. Doesn’t make waves. Doesn’t make anyone’s life harder.

I swallow words before they’re fully formed.
I smile when I want to scream.
I overthink texts, emails, words, before hitting send because I don’t want to be “too much,” confrontational, dramatic, or start problems.

I used to think that letting things go, staying quiet, and keeping the peace were what made me a good person. The better person. The mature one. The strong one. But it doesn’t.

Because underneath it I feel rage. Rage so strong I want to slam a door so hard it comes off it’s hinges. I want to scream until my voice cracks, until every time I ever stayed quiet comes spilling out in one breath. I want to throw something across the room just to prove to myself I’m allowed to take up space.

I want to stop being so goddamn composed all the time. I want to stop being the calm one, the rational one,, the one who makes sense. The one who appears to have her shit together. I want to be unreasonable, loud, messy, and unapologetic.

I want someone to ask what’s wrong and actually mean it. Actually care. I want to say I’m angry without anyone acting shocked. I want to not feel guilty for being a woman with a pulse and unmet needs and a lifetime of swallowing it down so no one else is uncomfortable.

I want to burn down every version of me that learned that being lovable means being useful. Being pleasant. Being a doormat.

I’m angry no one ever taught me how to need. Or how to want. Or how to have feelings that take up space. I never learned how to speak up or stand out. I learned how to wait. How to read a room. How to shape-shift. How to stay small enough to be acceptable.

And I’m exhausted.

I’m exhausted from knowing what everyone else needs before they ask and not even knowing what I need. I’m exhausted from trying to earn my right to exist through how useful, how predictable, how selfless I can be. I'm tired of knowing the right thing to say while forgetting how to be honest. Holding my tongue for the sake of being safe.

I feel like I’ve lived most of my life from the edges of the room. Always observing. Always anticipating. Always being the one who made things easier for everyone else while silently wondering why I never offered myself that same softness.

And maybe the hardest part is how invisible it’s all been. There’s no language for this kind of hurt. The kind that comes from being overlooked because you were so damn capable. No one checks when you don’t make noise. They assume you are “fine.” You are the one they don’t have to worry about.

But they should have worried. I wanted them to worry. I wanted them to notice. I wanted them to see that I was drowning quietly while everyone else took up oxygen like it was their birthright.

I think it’s time to undo it all. To be more honest. To be less agreeable. To admit when I’m not okay. To speak up when I disagree. To tell the truth without packaging it so nicely no one gets uncomfortable.

To say with full breath, “I hate it here.” To let the truth land without apology.

Am I allowed to act how I want to act, say what I want to say, do what I want to do? To have feelings, and thoughts, and opinions, and disagree? To have a voice. To use that voice. And not be afraid of the consequences?

Why does that scare me?

Because if I’m not the easy one anymore, then who the hell am I?

If I start saying no, if I stop performing, if I let people see the raw parts —the anger, the need, the mess— will I still get to belong?

Do I even belong now?

Yes, I do. With my husband and my children, I do. They’ve seen the real me and they’d love me in any shape I showed up in. But beyond them? I don’t know. I don’t think so. Outside my home, I feel like I have to keep the act going. Be easy. Be agreeable. Be polished enough to make everyone else comfortable.

But I’m tired of holding my breath to stay likable.

Isn’t that what I’ve been?
A prisoner.
Not to bars or chains, but to the imagined gaze of other people. To their unspoken judgments. To the made-up rules about who I have to be to be acceptable.

The more I think about it, the more I realize the shift I’ve been circling has to happen. It’s not a matter of how. It’s a matter of when.

Maybe this is what coming home to yourself feels like. Not triumphant. Not pretty. Just honest. Just… tired of pretending.

Have you ever like you’re constantly editing yourself to be acceptable?
Like you’ve performed for so long you’re not even sure what’s real anymore?
Like maybe you don’t get to belong unless you’re agreeable, polished, or quiet?

If you’re in that place right now—reading this and thinking this is me—I want you to know yuou don’t have to feel this way forever.

It can change. It changed for me.

Not overnight. Not without discomfort. But over time, with support, and with the right tools, I started to come back to myself. Coaching was what opened that door. It helped me untangle the roles I had learned to play and build a relationship with the version of me I had buried underneath all that pleasing and performing. And eventually, I learned how to self-coach… how to meet myself with truth instead of shame.

Now, as a certified life coach, this is what I help other women do every day.
Women who feel like they’re stuck in a life that looks good from the outside but feels empty on the inside.
Women who want to stop disappearing.
Women who are ready to stop waiting for permission.

If this resonates and you’re ready to invest in your own healing and clarity, I’d love to support you.

→ Schedule a free discovery call
→ Apply to work with me