When Love Meets My Shadow Self
The quiet courage of choosing myself, even when it meant walking away
There’s a terrifying clarity in realizing you’re always the one who loves more.
You start to notice the small signs — how they don’t ask about the restaurant you were excited to try, how their eyes, once warm and dilated in your presence, now flicker with indifference or even annoyance. I’ve lived in this quiet imbalance for most of my life. No one has ever claimed me as their favorite person. Not once. And in their absence, I slowly became my own least favorite person — questioning my worth, minimizing my needs, and shrinking myself to fit into spaces where I hoped to be chosen. That truth sits deep, buried somewhere in the softest part of me.
But there was one moment that changed everything. A holiday weekend with my partner and some friends — the kind of gathering that should have felt warm and easy. Instead, I felt myself shrinking by the hour. The next morning, before the sun was fully up, I packed my things, quietly collected my dog, and left. I didn’t wait to be noticed. I just... disappeared.
As I drove toward the rising sun, the sky looked heartbreakingly beautiful — golden and pink, the kind of light that feels like a beginning. But for me, it marked an ending. That sunrise became a line in the sand — the moment I consciously chose myself over someone who had already let me go. It wasn’t just the end of a relationship; it was the beginning of a new vow to never abandon myself again. I realized then that the love I have for myself had to become bigger than the love I gave to someone who couldn’t love me back. I pulled away. And it felt like a victory.
But here’s what no one tells you about those proud moments: when you learn to leave, it gets easier to leave again. And again. Even when the people care. Even when they mean well. Because the pain of being slowly forgotten — of watching someone fall out of love with you, pixel by pixel — is too familiar. Too easy to anticipate.
So I built armor. Not the kind you can see, but the kind that performs connection without ever truly offering it. I smiled at the right times, asked thoughtful questions, shared stories that hinted at vulnerability without ever revealing the depth of my hurt. I let people see just enough to think they knew me, while quietly keeping the messiest, most tender parts of myself locked away. Online, I looked open. Vulnerable. I wrote honest words and shared pieces of myself. But in real life? I tightened. I edited. I made sure to seem unbothered, undemanding — the kind of person who doesn’t need too much.
Writing was once my sanctuary. As a child, I scribbled messy little letters to my mom, declaring my love and apologies for whatever I had done. But somewhere along the way, I stopped. I stopped writing, stopped speaking. My mind grew full of things I never said — conversations left unspoken, feelings hidden so well they almost disappeared.
The most painful part of rejection is not the moment it happens. It’s the way it slowly rewires you. I began to believe that love had to be earned through effort — through forgiveness, endurance, being the one who stays. I gave until I was empty, thinking that loving someone enough for both of us would make them stay. That safety meant tolerating pain if it meant avoiding loneliness.
It wasn’t until I stumbled across a book on attachment theory at 22 that I saw myself — clearly, and for the first time. I wasn’t broken; I was anxious. I craved closeness and feared abandonment. And I kept falling into the arms of people who needed space more than connection. People who called me “too much” just for wanting to be loved deeply. But something shifted when I started choosing myself — slowly, awkwardly, and then with more conviction.
I began to see the parts of myself I’d hidden — jealousy, sensitivity, the fear of not being enough — not as flaws, but as parts that wanted to be held. I had spent years presenting a polished version of myself in relationships: calm, cool, “low-maintenance.” Meanwhile, inside, I was crumbling. And when those shadow parts slipped out — during fights, or moments of overwhelm — I was always told to “calm down.” That it wasn’t a big deal. That I was being dramatic.
And still, I stayed. For a long time, staying was my default. I didn’t know yet that I was allowed to leave when things were bad — not just unbearable. I didn’t know that you don’t have to walk on eggshells to be loved.
Over time, I’ve started to soften. Not in the way that means I let people walk all over me — but in the way that means I let myself feel again. I ground myself with the little things. I touch the cotton of my shirt and remind myself: this is mine. I listen to the birds outside, my cat’s meow, and the sound of my own breath. I tell my inner child what she always needed to hear: You’re not too much. You’re not invisible. You’re safe now.
I still fear being fully seen, but that fear feels different now — less like a cage and more like a whisper. It no longer paralyzes me. Instead, it reminds me that I’m doing something brave, something real. With each person who meets me with gentleness, the fear softens, and in those moments, I start to believe I can stay. To be seen now means being held in the truth of who I am — not someone’s idea of me, but the real me. Not my favorite color or TV show, but how I take my coffee. How I like my cheese and plantains just slightly burnt. How I always lose my sleep mask before bed, and how deeply loved I feel when someone remembers to save it for me.
To the ones still hiding: let the mask fall. It may feel safer to be invisible, to be just likable enough. But when you allow yourself to be truly seen — when you’re met with presence, not perfection — you’ll wonder why you ever accepted crumbs in the first place.
I remind myself often: I am here, not there. I am myself. I am whole.
Because the scariest thing about love is also the most sacred:
It asks you to show up fully, without guarantee.
And sometimes, miraculously, that’s enough.