Rewriting the Rules

And choosing myself.

“She had to find the courage to break the things that had gotten her to this place.

It was the only way to begin, again.”

Alysia Quinn

Old habits die hard. Boy, do they ever.

From the moment my wobbly legs took their first steps, I fell into the role of the loyal soldier—the one who marches in line without missing a beat, even when nausea threatens to take hold. The ever-pleasing soul whose mind is flooded with thoughts but never dares to voice them and furrow a brow in the room. The sensitive being who notices the slightest shift in tone or facial expression and adjusts her actions accordingly.

Since childhood, I have equated compliance and selflessness with safety, so much so that I made it my mission to bring joy to people’s lives, regardless of what it cost me. I answered every request and served others until my body ached in an effort to continue receiving love and praise. As long as I had oxygen in my lungs, I moved in the direction I was told without once considering the toll it took on me. I agreed to play the part and signed on the dotted line, but what if I no longer want this role?

Am I allowed to change my mind?

And what will I lose if I choose differently?

Who am I if I don’t dedicate my life to catering to other people’s needs?

Will I still be loved?

Or will I be judged and cast away?

My head is spinning with questions that leave me paralyzed with uncertainty. Fear has been sitting comfortably in the driver’s seat for decades, gripping the wheel for control in an attempt to shield me from pain. But it’s time to let go of that familiar pattern, reach for the paper, and begin tearing. As I rip up the contract—the one I signed as a child with the fine print I never read—I think of the innocent little girl who only wanted to be loved. The one who honored everyone’s wishes but her own and worked overtime to earn love. I see her exhausted face every time I close my eyes.

I want more for her.

I want more for myself.

Looking back, I regret the role I played in the many moments that didn’t align with my soul. I grieve the decades lost and my gnawing hesitancy to choose myself. But instead of being angry with my younger self and the decisions she made, I kneel down and hold her in my arms. Her tears soak through my shirt sleeve as I thank her for trying her hardest to keep us wrapped in a safe cocoon. I praise her empathy and sensitivity while reassuring her that none of this is her fault. The truth finally sets in as I hear myself say, “You’re only a child.” The words echo throughout the chambers of my heart—I was only a child. And with that, I release the guilt and shame that were woven into my identity long ago.

I am thankful she allowed me to come close enough to bear witness and comfort her on the ground. Every brave step I take forward on this journey is for her—the little girl who mastered the art of reading a room before she could even talk. I spent the first half of my life ignoring my intuition or performing on cue for the sake of keeping the peace, but gone are the days of overaccommodating and overapologizing. With the image of my younger self flashing like a strobe light in my mind, I vow to choose myself for the remainder of my days.