Everyone’s, but Not My Own

It’s my curse, my burden, that I’m my own enemy.

When I need myself the most, I can’t see the wings behind me ... the ones everyone says I have, the ones they notice, the ones they admire. I’ve never felt them. Never touched them. Never believed in them. My friends say I’m different, special, talented. They notice it, maybe even envy it. But I see nothing. I search, I strain, but nothing appears.

I spend my days lifting others, seeing the good in them, holding space for their pain. Even challenging them when they speak poorly of themselves, I make sure they feel understood, comforted, safe. But when it comes to me  my mistakes, my flaws, my pain , i become my own nightmare. I tear myself apart where no one else can, in ways not even my worst enemy would.

And it’s so heavy, carrying the weight of everyone’s burdens while my own go unnoticed , left unattended by the very person who should care the most.

I realized it a little too late that...

In the process of being kind and understanding to all, I became a missing parent to myself.

I was careful with love when it came to myself ,almost stingy with it .. in ways I would never be with anyone else.

I don’t practice what I preach. I don’t share the warmth I give so freely with myself. I don’t tend to my wounds with the same patience and care.

I am everyone’s, but not my own.

I know I should stand by myself, even when everyone seems against me. I should be there for myself when no one else is standing beside me. When my emotions spiral and my thoughts turn cruel, I should be the one to stop them. I should be the one reminding myself that mistakes don’t erase effort, and that only I know the battles I’m quietly fighting.

The same kindness I offer to others should exist for me too.

And yet, even knowing this, I forget. I become merciless, impatient, disappointed in myself. Perhaps it’s the fear of letting people down. Perhaps it’s the fear of hearing that I’m not good enough.

So I get there first.

I point out my flaws before anyone else can. I tear down my own work before someone else questions it. I speak the harsh words to myself before they can come from another mouth.

It feels safer that way.

But awareness alone doesn’t heal the wound.
And knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better.

Sometimes it just means realizing how often the child in you had to grow up without the kindness they deserved ... even from you.