The Journey of Self -Love

For most of my life, I believed love was something you had to earn.

That if I wasn’t perfect—if I wasn’t successful enough, smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough—then I didn’t deserve it.

I believed that love had conditions. That it came with rules, checkboxes, unspoken contracts. That to be worthy of affection, I had to meet expectations. Make the right choices. Keep the peace. Perform.

I don’t remember learning that lesson all at once. It didn’t come from one traumatic moment or harsh punishment. It came gradually—like water carving stone.

A hundred small moments shaped that belief: The look of disappointment when I brought home a B instead of an A. The way my parents praised other kids who became doctors, engineers, or married early. The stories they told of kids who “messed up” and got kicked out—disowned for stepping out of line.

It was never directed at me. Not explicitly. But I got the message. Loud and clear.

Fall out of line, and you’ll be forgotten, a disappointment.

Somewhere in my twenties, that belief crystallized into something more dangerous:

If my own parents couldn’t love me for who I was… how could anyone else?

I never said it out loud. But I felt it in my bones. In my relationships. In how I carried myself. In how I never let anyone get too close.

I thought there was something fundamentally wrong with me—something broken that I couldn’t quite fix.

My siblings didn’t seem to feel this way. They embraced the roles laid out for them. They found partners young. They followed the script. They seemed… okay.

I tried, too. I went to pharmacy school. On paper, it made sense. It was safe. Secure. Respected.

I tell people I left because I didn’t want to count pills for the rest of my life. And that’s true.

But the deeper truth?

I didn’t think I was smart enough to stay. I believed that if I had been more focused, more driven, more obedient—if I had been better—I would’ve made it.

Instead, I walked away. Not just from the career path—but from the identity that had been written for me.

I carried questions like hidden bruises: Why couldn’t I be smart enough to be a doctor? Why wasn’t I pretty enough or skinny enough to be loved? Why couldn’t I just be the daughter they wanted?

Failure Was My Grace

Each time I failed to live up to expectations, I internalized the same story: I am the problem.

So I stopped letting people in. I kept my distance—not because I didn’t crave connection, but because I didn’t believe I deserved it.

I didn’t hate myself. I just… dismissed myself.

And for a long time, I didn’t even realize it.

Because when you grow up believing love is conditional, you start to mistrust anything that feels unconditional. You wait for the other shoe to drop. You assume kindness has a price.

I became self-sufficient to a fault. I wore independence like armor. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t expect softness. I didn’t want to burden anyone with the version of me I couldn’t accept.

It was a lonely way to live.

But it felt safer than being seen.

Unlearning What I Once Knew

The turning point didn’t come with a breakthrough or epiphany. It came with exhaustion.

I was tired of shrinking. Tired of performing. Tired of holding myself to impossible standards, then beating myself up when I couldn’t meet them.

So I stopped.

I stopped chasing approval. I stopped trying to impress. I stopped forcing relationships that felt like auditions. I distanced myself from my family. I left the country. I gave myself space—for the first time—to just be.

And what I found in that space was unexpected.

I started spending time alone—not to fix or improve myself, but to simply witness who I was underneath all the masks.

And slowly, quietly, I started learning how to love myself. Not because I achieved something. Not because I proved anything. But because I was finally willing to see myself fully.

It wasn’t easy. Healing rarely is. But it was honest.

And that made all the difference.

I learned that joy doesn’t come from making everyone else proud. It comes from making peace with who you are.

I started redefining love—not as something to be earned, but something to be allowed. Something to be felt. Something to be chosen, over and over, starting with myself.

Rewriting the Story

Even now, I still catch myself slipping into old patterns. The urge to prove. The instinct to self-edit. The belief that I have to be “more” to be worthy.

But I know how to pause. I know how to breathe. I know how to come back to myself.

Because the truth is this: I don’t need to be perfect to be loved. I just need to stop abandoning myself.

And maybe, just maybe— That’s where real love begins.

What is the story you tell yourself that needs to be re-written?