why it’s ok to feel.

Self-awareness is a continuous process. It requires a great deal of consciousness, an active state of being… aware. It is about holding oneself accountable—acknowledging when you went wrong, and learning from those mistakes to evolve into something better. I find this concept particularly fascinating, especially since I tend to live more in my head than in the present moment. Add depression and PTSD to the mix, and I become a product of my own undoing—something that can go too far, too often.

Lao Tzu once said, “If you are depressed you are living in the past. If you are anxious you are living in the future. If you are at peace you are living in the present.” This quote puts everything in perspective for me.

“Where is all of this going?” you may ask. Right now, I am navigating a dark and overwhelming space within myself. The mental mix I described earlier has sparked something in me that I cannot yet put into words. This “something” is so intense, so consuming, that I find myself afraid to see where it will lead. There is no outline, no preparation, no structure—just a series of intermittent tears.

Let me start by saying something important: I do not like feelings. This is crucial because it is the reason I am opening up about all of this. I prefer living in the inner world of rationality and logic, where things are explicitly seen and understood, as opposed to actually experiencing or embracing my feelings. It is complicated, but it is the reality I have come to know.

Growing up, I always felt different—weird, even. I talked too much, and for that, I was reprimanded. I engaged in mental competitions with others, driven by feelings of inferiority and insecurity, often based on intellect or my ability to understand things. My experiences didn’t match those of others, which made me feel alienated. I didn’t know who to trust or who to be friends with. I had no idea how deeply this sense of isolation would affect me until much later.

But that’s normal, right?

The part of my experience that is not so normal, and which has been slowly creeping into many aspects of my life, is my refusal to actually feel anything. I love the idea of connection, of interacting and getting close to others. But I am not comfortable with the vulnerability of feeling anything. I have chosen, for much of my life, to numb myself—to not feel, to not engage emotionally—until therapy began to challenge that pattern.

No one truly knows me—not my parents, not my family, not my relationships. I do not let others get too close, no matter how it may seem on the surface, because I am afraid. I often cycle through bouts of self-deprecation, questioning my worth, and harboring thoughts that no one should have toward themselves.

I learned early to lie about my emotions, my thoughts, my experiences. I even lied about trivial things as a child, seeking attention, because that was the only way I could get anyone to notice me. As I got older, I began to understand how those lies affected me. When traumatic things happened, I would call myself a liar for being hurt, for feeling affected. It was either that, or I would suppress it. If it wasn’t about grades or superficial things, it seemed to have no value. I was taught that what happens in the house stays in the house. I heard the words, “I love you,” but I never understood their meaning.

I grew up wanting real, meaningful friendships—something genuine. I wanted approval and acceptance from others to fill the void of loneliness. I grew uncomfortable with being myself, and eventually, I grew uncomfortable with not being able to express who I wanted to be. It’s complicated, but that’s how I felt. I desired to feel wanted—not just for my achievements or for conforming to someone else’s idea of normal, but for who I truly am. I wanted to feel at home in my own skin, not have to change, morph, or sacrifice parts of myself to feel something, anything.

Now, when I reflect on it, I realize how alone I have been. Detachment, for me, is not a cute personality trait—it has been a defense mechanism, a way to protect myself from feeling anything too deeply. But the cost has been high, and the loneliness has become harder to bear.

My words, my feelings, my experiences have often been invalidated, leading me to believe that I deserved the same fate. I became accustomed to sacrificing my own sanity for things that ultimately didn’t matter. It was a toxic cycle that led me to question everything—especially when I began opening up and sharing my vulnerabilities. Why am I doing this? I asked myself. Why am I allowing myself to be vulnerable now?

The truth is, I can no longer remain silent. I no longer want to lie to others about how I feel, what I think, or who I am. I do not want to keep lying to myself.

For a long time, I felt guilty for having feelings—guilt for expressing them, and guilt for not sharing them when I needed to. I feared that it would come across as ungrateful or selfish. I understood that others had their own struggles, their own hardships, and I did not want to burden them with mine.

I am realizing that I can’t keep running from my feelings. I need to feel. It is okay to be vulnerable. It is okay to cry. It is okay to feel overwhelmed. For once, I am allowing myself to be present with my emotions, rather than pushing them aside in favor of remaining numb.

It is time to stop denying the emotional weight of my experiences. The past cannot be left behind until I deal with it, until I allow myself to feel the pain of it and let it go, respectfully. I no longer want to be emotionally unavailable, and I wish to attract people who are capable of being emotionally available too. I want to surround myself with those who can truly listen—not just to hear, but to understand. Those who will listen to my pain, my thoughts, my voice, without judgment or expectation. I do not have to prove my worth to anyone, and neither should anyone else have to prove theirs to me in order to feel loved.

You cannot stay in my life just to exploit my pain, only to disappear when I find joy. I do not expect anything in return for being a good person. I do not expect anything from others who need someone to confide in, because I know what it feels like to be left unheard. Yes, hurt people hurt people—but being aware of your hurt and choosing to project that hurt onto others is not an excuse.

I have been telling myself that it is okay to not feel, that it is okay to suppress my emotions and simply be content with what is there. But I can no longer accept that. If I continue living numb, am I truly living? Can one walk through life with a dead soul and expect to bring life to anything?

Writing and creating have always been my safe spaces—places where I can express myself without fear of judgment or misunderstanding. I want to share these spaces with the world, and in doing so, reclaim my voice.

I have neglected this site. I was afraid to come back. I felt like I wasn’t doing anything worthy, like my voice did not matter. But I now realize that imposter syndrome is a liar. I feel called to share my story, to be a voice for those who may not have the courage to speak theirs. For those who need to reconnect with their sense of self, or for anyone who simply wants to learn from my journey.

It is worth it.

The following are affirmations I use to remind myself that it is okay to feel, to experience, and to be vulnerable. If you or anyone else needs them, feel free to adapt them to your own situation:

• I am hurt. And that is okay.
• It is okay to cry.
• It is okay to feel.
• I will be okay one day.
• I am here. I am enough.
• Everything that makes me who I am cannot be taken away from me.

Thank you for reading.