For the longest time, I thought I was losing my mind. I questioned everything—every feeling, every suspicion, every gut instinct. Maybe I was overreacting, maybe I was making things up, maybe none of it was real. How could all of this really be happening to me? The thought loop was exhausting, a constant battle between trusting my own experiences and doubting my own reality.
But then—other people started noticing it too.
That gut feeling I had? That lingering unease? The way Emily, my dad, or even Sarah acted—it wasn’t just something I had imagined. It wasn’t just a story I had fabricated in my head to make sense of things. It was real.
And honestly, there’s a strange mix of relief and frustration that comes with that realization. Relief, because maybe I wasn’t the “dramatic” one after all. Frustration, because why did it take others seeing it for me to truly believe myself? Why was my own lived experience not enough for me to trust what I knew deep down?
The thing is, maybe part of the reason I questioned myself so much is that I don’t always remember everything. I’ve noticed that when really bad things happen, I tend to black them out, like my brain just shuts down and refuses to hold onto the memory. Sometimes, I’ll look back and only see fragments—the aftermath, the emotions, but not the exact details. And for the longest time, that made me wonder if I was just making things up. After all, if I couldn’t remember everything, how could I be so sure it even happened the way I thought?
But here’s the truth: just because I don’t remember every detail doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Trauma has a way of forcing itself into the cracks, shaping the way we react, think, and feel—even if we don’t recall every single moment. My mind might try to protect me from the worst parts, but my body remembers. The anxiety, the hesitation, the instinct to brace myself when certain situations arise—all of it speaks louder than any forgotten memory ever could.
Coming to terms with this has been complicated. It makes me wonder how many times I’ve gaslit myself into believing things weren’t as bad as they felt. How many moments I brushed off, dismissed, or rewrote in my mind to make them more acceptable. And the scariest part? I don’t even know how much of it I’ve still got tucked away, waiting for me to unravel.
But here’s what I do know: my reality is valid. My experiences are real. And just because some people are good at pretending—or making me second-guess everything—doesn’t mean the truth isn’t there, staring me in the face.
So, to anyone who’s ever doubted themselves, convinced they were overthinking, rewriting their own memories because they must be imagining things—stop. If your gut is telling you something, listen. You don’t need anyone else to validate your experiences for them to be real. You don’t need external confirmation to know what you lived through.
I spent too long doubting myself, but I’m done doing that now.
And if this post resonates with you in any way, maybe it’s time for you to stop doubting yourself too.
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