Hard on Myself

I’m hard on myself

in ways no one ever sees.

I hold myself to standards

I never asked anyone else to reach,

carrying expectations

that feel heavier than my own skin.

People tell me to be gentle,

to breathe,

to give myself grace—

for grace has been here all along.

In a heart that remembers everything,

In a mind that keeps score

even when no one’s playing.

I pick myself apart

before the world ever gets the chance,

as if hurting myself first

will soften the blow

of being human.

I overthink,

over-apologize,

over-analyze every word

I should’ve said differently.

Every choice, every stumble

feels like proof

that I’m too much

and not enough

all at once.

But I’m trying.

Trying to loosen the grip,

to unclench the jaw,

to stop treating my heart

like a battlefield.

Trying to remember that growth

isn’t supposed to be perfect—

that healing is messy,

and learning to love myself

might look like failure

before it looks like freedom.

One day,

I hope I look back

and see someone who deserved

so much more kindness

than she ever gave herself.

Until then,

I’m learning—slowly—

that softness isn’t weakness,

and I don’t have to break

to deserve peace.