I love the woman I’ve become, because she fought to become HER.

I love the woman I’ve become, because she fought to become HER.

There was a time when I didn’t recognize the mirror staring back at me. There was a long stretch of silence inside, a fog of doubt and a gravity that pulled me toward small, quiet versions of myself that didn’t feel like me at all. I lost my voice, my spark, and honestly—my self-respect. I hit a rock bottom moment that felt like a permanent night, a private ending to a story I hadn’t finished writing yet. But when you’re at the bottom, you’ve got only one way to go: up. And that’s exactly what I did.

I fought my way back to my first love: me. Not the version of me that the world wanted to see, not the version that fit someone else’s expectations, but the real, messy, glorious, flawed, hopeful ME. It wasn’t a single thunderbolt of revelation. It was a slow rebuild, a daily choice to reintroduce myself to myself, to choose her again and again even on days when choosing sounded impossible.

The turning point wasn’t a single dramatic moment. It was a handful of small, stubborn decisions that piled up into a new life. I started with the basics: wake up and tell myself I deserved a bit of kindness, even when the old voice whispered otherwise. I allowed myself to grieve what I’d lost—the sense of self that I thought belonged to someone else, the energy I’d poured into pleasing the wrong people. I forgave myself for the moments I believed the lie that I wasn’t worth the effort it would take to become who I wanted to be.

Then came the work. The real, sweaty, imperfect work. Therapy helped me untangle the knots of years of self-doubt and the sabotaging stories I’d told myself. Journaling gave me a map of where I’d been and where I hoped to go. Boundaries—soft at first, then firmer—began to set the scene for a life I could sustain. I learned to say no to people and situations that drained me, and yes to things that fed my soul: long walks in the morning light, conversations with people who believed in me, creative projects that reminded me I could still dream.

The road wasn’t a straight line. There were detours, detentions, and detours again. There were days when the old voice raged in my ear, trying to pull me back to a version of me that served no one—not even me. But I kept returning to the same truth: if I was going to love anything in this world, let it be the very thing I spent a lifetime trying to sideline—myself. I am not a finished product, and that’s the beauty of it. Becoming HER is a process, a practice, a love affair with my own humanity.

What does it feel like to love the woman I’ve become? It feels like permission: permission to feel, to rest, to fail, to start again. It feels like relief, the relief of relinquishing the pressure to be perfect and instead choosing to be authentic. It feels like courage. Not the absence of fear, but the decision to walk toward fear with empathy, curiosity, and a steady breath. It feels like pride—quiet, stubborn pride that doesn’t shout but settles into your bones and says, “You earned this. You deserve every bit of joy you’re allowing yourself to receive.”

I did not do this alone. I had guides along the way: friends who showed up with earphones and tea and unfiltered honesty. A therapist who held space for the pain and offered tools to rewrite the script. A community—whether a handful of trusted people or a larger circle—who reflected back to me the woman I was becoming, sometimes when I couldn’t see her myself. And, most important, I learned to lean into the love I’ve always deserved from myself—the kind of love that doesn’t disappear when the days get hard, the kind that becomes a sturdy foundation for every other relationship in my life.

The moment when I realized I’d fallen back in love with me came not with a grand gesture, but with a line I repeated in the quiet of the morning: I am choosing me. Not as a rebellion against the past, but as a commitment to the life I want to live, the person I want to be, and the woman I want to wake up beside every day—the one who started this journey and stayed through the weather.

If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of that loss, or if you fear you’ve gone too far to return, I want to offer a few ideas that helped me reclaim my humanity:

Reconnect with your “first love”—the things you used to do that made you come alive before the noise started. It could be painting, running, writing, cooking, or simply sitting with your thoughts in a quiet room. Start small, and give yourself permission to enjoy them without guilt.

Build a boundary toolkit. Learn to identify what drains you and what nourishes you. Boundaries aren’t punitive; they are declarations of care for your time, energy, and self-worth.

Seek help that respects your pace. Therapy isn’t a one-size-fits-all fix, but a practice that, with the right fit, can be transformative. If a clinician doesn’t feel right after a few sessions, try another. Your healing deserves a partner who meets you with credibility and warmth.

Create a daily ritual of self-validation. Stand in front of a mirror and tell yourself at least one thing you did well that day, no matter how small. It’s not vanity; it’s a practice of reprogramming your inner dialogue.

Write yourself a love letter from your future self. Describe what you’ve overcome, how you feel, and what you deserve. Then read it aloud to yourself and hold onto that vision as you navigate the days ahead.

Embrace the imperfect perfection of being human. You will stumble. You will forget your own worth. And that’s okay. Each time you return to yourself after a stumble, you grow stronger.

In the end, what I discovered is that the most radical act of love I could offer the world was to become the woman I was always meant to be: not a perfect version of someone else’s ideal, but a living, breathing, evolving version of myself. I learned to forgive the past, not to erase it, but to let it inform a wiser, more compassionate present. I learned that “Thank you, next” is not a dismissal of the people and moments that shaped me. It’s a gentle, powerful acknowledgment that I am choosing to step forward into the next chapter with gratitude, not as a reaction to pain, but as a conscious act of self-respect.

So here I am, a woman who has fought for HER and won a quiet, resplendent victory. The victory isn’t about perfection; it’s about truth—the truth that I am worthy of love, attention, and joy simply because I am here, and I am me. I loved the woman I’ve become because she fought to become HER, and I’ll love her even more tomorrow, because the journey is ongoing and deeply human.

Thank you, next. To the life I’m leaving behind, I say goodbye with a grateful goodbye. To the life I’m stepping into, I say hello with a hopeful hello. And to the woman in the mirror, I say: you are enough, you are worthy, and you are more than ready for whatever comes next. Let’s keep adventuring together.