Skip to main content

Not Your Cup of Tea.

Doing what you want is meant to be liberating. At the moment, it's uncomfortable and doesn't feel right; it feels incredibly wrong. 

Doing things that require you to advocate for yourself means that you are subject to the judgement of others. The things you want and why you want are questioned.

You are confronted with the reality that you aren't everyone's cup of tea. It's not that you expected to be but it's a harsh blow to realize it regardless.  

Today, I did something for the first time; I received a humorous response that bordered on one that could crush me before. My sensitivity played a part in how deeply I felt it. 

While I understood the response, placing so much value on recognition left me unexpectedly heartbroken. It's nonsensical, I know, but it's a feeling I'm struggling to shake off.

It's okay to feel a little crushed, but internalizing it to the extent that you avoid that experience for years isn't the answer. As a child, such reactions affect you deeply, and as an adult, they still leave their mark.

I took it in jest. It worked. 

I have also realized these changes aren't easy on people around you either, for a multitude of reasons.

Some people like to pull others down with them. 

Those friends don't help water your flowers. They let you stay and rot in your comfort zone. It's quite hard to realize that some people don't want the best for you. Because it challenges their view of this easy friendship where one gives and the other takes.

Let that growth be uncomfortable, clinging to every crevice of the unforgiving wall to overcome and continue growing.

It's embarrassing, it's not ideal. It's a learning process and as a human, aiming for growth in such a consuming area means you must express yourself in front of people. All kinds of people. To learn how to care and not at the same time.

This mask you've put up must fall. And it's hard to let yourself be judged, not the character you've played. You have no excuse when confronted with yourself, the reality of who you are and what you've done.

It's daunting, the idea of meeting yourself. It challenges your relationship with yourself and that one-sided transaction where you take but never give.

You are a stranger to yourself. Know who you're trying to cover up. And why. It's scary, but must it remain hidden?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...

Loss.

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.