this has been a recurring topic in therapy—one that keeps circling back no matter how much i try to outgrow it. i’ve tried to laugh it off, reason with it, even convince myself that it doesn’t matter anymore.
but it does.
i just couldn’t wrap my head around the “why.” why it hurts the way it does, even now as an adult. why it still echoes in the smallest moments—like when i accomplish something and instinctively wish they’d be proud.
it’s strange, isn’t it? how something so old can still feel so fresh.
this has been my quiet struggle for as long as i can remember.
and maybe naming it here, admitting it out loud, is part of finally facing it.
but therapy has been teaching me something.
that not being the favorite doesn’t mean i was unworthy of love—only that some people didn’t know how to give it in the way i needed.
and that’s not my fault.
it never was.
so now, i’m learning to stop chasing the version of love that kept overlooking me. i’m learning to give myself the warmth i kept trying to earn.
there’s peace in realizing i can be my own favorite.
that i can show up for myself the way i always wished someone would.
some days it still stings, i won’t lie.
but i’m gentler with that pain now.
because maybe healing isn’t about pretending it didn’t hurt—
maybe it’s about holding the hurt and saying, you’re safe here now.