(Everything I’m about to say doesn’t include Izzy or Tia, because they are the only people in this family that I know are there for me and truly care.)
For a long time, I thought I wanted to fix things—to repair the cracks, bridge the gaps, put in the work to rebuild something that honestly, maybe never even existed in the way I hoped.
I convinced myself that family meant trying, that it meant changing a lot. Changing who I was, how I spoke, how I reacted—just to make them comfortable enough to let me in. And for what? So they could keep me in their lives on their terms? So they could pick and choose when I mattered? When I was worth the effort?
Because let’s be real—that effort never went both ways.
The truth is, I’ve spent so much time trying to be what they wanted that I never stopped to ask what I wanted. And this year, I did. I sat down, I thought about it, I let the realization sink in without trying to make excuses for anyone. And the truth is so simple it almost makes me mad:
I was the only one trying.
It was always me—the one reaching out, the one keeping the peace, the one bending just enough to make sure things stayed intact. But I’m done carrying the responsibility of a relationship that nobody else is showing up for. A phone works two ways. Communication works two ways. Love works two ways. And if I’m the only one putting in the effort, then what exactly is the point?
So here’s where I land: I know who I want in my life. And if certain people aren’t part of that? I’ll be okay.
I’m done waiting for something that isn’t coming. I’m done making space for people who don’t make space for me.
And honestly? It feels really good to say that out loud.
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