The Joy I Almost Forgot to Want

On Learning to Receive What I Once Felt Ashamed to Desire

Photo by Jimena Hersáez on Unsplash

There was a time when joy felt like something meant for other people. Something I could maybe be near, maybe witness, but not something I could truly have. Wanting it felt risky—like it exposed too much of me. Like asking for too much would just confirm what I feared most: that I was too much, or not enough.

So I stopped wanting. Or at least, I tried to.

I learned to shrink, to be agreeable, to only take up space if it made someone else more comfortable. I read the room before I even entered it. I became “low-maintenance,” the kind of person who never asks for anything and still shows up with everything to give. And I got so good at being useful that I forgot how to be seen.

Growing up, I remember always trying to be someone’s best friend. I could point out exactly who mine was, but I was never anyone’s first choice. I got used to being the second thought, the extra invite, the person you include because it would be awkward not to. I remember standing there in so many moments, wishing I could disappear—and at the same time, wishing someone would finally notice me.

That feeling followed me into adulthood. Especially in love. I was always the one offering, proving, hoping they’d finally see how “good” I was—though deep down, I wasn’t even sure I believed it myself. The smallest gestures felt enormous, even when they were half-hearted or too late. I accepted drunken 3am texts like they were love letters. I confused attention with affection. And I stayed. Over and over again, I stayed.

I’ll never forget the day I moved to a new city for someone I loved. Hurricane season had started, I didn’t know anyone, and I was scared. I lay on a blow-up mattress, texting him, begging him to come over. Just to be near. Just to not be alone. He told me I was being dramatic. That hurricanes were normal. That I was “too much.”

That wasn’t the only time I begged to be loved and got belittled instead. It became a pattern. My feelings were always “too much.” My needs, an inconvenience. I remember getting my wisdom teeth out and being in pain, asking for help, only to be met with irritation and a pill bottle thrown in my direction.

These moments etched something into me: that asking for care was a burden. That wanting was shameful. That needing meant weakness.

But something shifted when I started therapy. When I found real friends. When I stopped measuring my worth by how much someone else wanted me. I started learning what healthy love could look like—quiet, honest, grounded. I began giving myself what I had always begged others for: attention, care, consistency. And somewhere in that process, I realized—I had completely forgotten how to want.

But I wanted to want again. Not out of desperation, not to fill a void—but because I was starting to believe I actually deserved good things. I wanted love that didn’t feel like survival. I wanted closeness without confusion. I wanted softness that didn’t come with strings.

These days, I’m still learning how to stay when joy shows up. How to let it land without brushing it off. I’m practicing receiving love without apologizing for it, without feeling like I have to earn it every second.

And honestly? I’m still unlearning. Still growing into someone who believes they don’t have to be “low-maintenance” to be lovable. Still forgiving the version of me that thought scraps were the best she could get.

But now—now I know I deserve more.

I deserve presence. I deserve gentleness. I deserve joy that’s mine, not borrowed.

And I’m finally starting to want it.

And if this piece spoke to you — if you’ve ever felt like too much, not enough, or somewhere in between — I’ve created something for you.

You can explore the products, reminders, and soft tools I’ve made at mentalnesting.etsy.com.

They’re for the version of you that’s still learning to want again, too.