There's a quiet kind of exhaustion that comes from being alive only for others.
From waking up every day wondering: What version of me will they like today?
I became an actress in my own skin.
Smiling when I wanted to scream. Laughing when I wanted to leave. Saying yes when every cell in me whispered no. I learned early that love—whatever that was—was earned, not given. That you had to become someone else to deserve affection.
And so, I became everyone else's version of "worthy."
With my parents, I was the obedient daughter. I cleaned, I studied, I nodded. Even when their words crushed me, I swallowed the hurt and served it back as silence. I thought if I just tried harder, smiled brighter, scored higher—they'd finally see me. But no matter what I gave, their eyes passed over me like I was furniture. Background. Never center stage.
With my relatives, I was the good girl. The respectful one. The one who listened without interrupting, laughed politely at bad jokes, accepted backhanded compliments like they were candy.
"She's quiet—that's good."
"She's smart, but not arrogant—perfect for a future wife."
"She's not too emotional."
"She doesn't cause trouble."
They meant it as praise. But every word made me smaller. Every "good" girl comment was another link in the chain wrapped around my ribs.
Even with friends—people who were supposed to be chosen, not inherited—I wasn't safe. I gave them loyalty they never earned, showed up when they didn't ask, forgave things they never apologized for. I thought if I was kind enough, if I made them laugh, if I stayed when everyone else left... maybe they'd stay too.
But no one did.
They took what they needed—attention, comfort, distraction—and left the moment I needed something back.
I didn't realize then that you can't make people stay by bleeding for them.
I didn't know that love given out of desperation often comes back empty.
Instead, I started asking the question that would haunt me for years:
What's wrong with me?
Why do I try so hard to be loved and still end up alone?
Why does everyone I pour myself into act like they never even tasted me?
Some nights, I'd stare at the ceiling and beg the sky to make me different.
Less sensitive.
Less needy.
Less me.
Because "me" never seemed to be enough.
And still... I kept trying.
Because when you grow up starving, you'll eat whatever you're offered—even if it hurts to swallow.
That's the thing about being unloved—you start believing that love is something to earn. You shape-shift. You contort. You hand out pieces of yourself like gifts, hoping someone will unwrap you and decide to stay.
But no one ever did.
And every time they didn't, I thought: Next time I'll do better. I'll be better.
Even though deep down, all I ever wanted was to be chosen without having to beg for it.
Sometimes I think people look at me and wonder why I want to be loved so badly — as if there's something wrong with needing it this much. They might even think I'm going overboard, mistaking my longing for desperation. But they don't see the map of emptiness I've grown used to living inside. They don't know what it feels like to walk through life always waiting, always watching others receive what your heart barely knows how to imagine.
I didn't learn love gently. I learned it in the spaces where it was missing — in the way silence filled a room after two people who were supposed to care for each other only knew how to fight or drift apart. I watched my parents coexist like strangers bound by duty, not tenderness. I thought maybe that's all love was — something cold you endure. But even then, some fragile part of me believed love could be different. That it could feel like safety, like belonging, like being chosen. And because I never had it, I grew up aching for it in quiet, invisible ways.
So no, it's not about being overdramatic. It's about growing up with a heart that kept whispering, please, someone see me… someone stay. Wanting love became a kind of survival. When you grow up emotionally starved, even a little kindness feels like a feast. I carry this hunger in every conversation, in every glance that lasts a second too long. It's not because I don't love myself — I do, in the ways I've had to learn. But self-love doesn't replace the kind of warmth that comes from being held and chosen by someone else.
And maybe I've reached a point where I don't even want fairytale love. I just want something real. A person who doesn't get tired of me when I'm quiet, who doesn't disappear when I open up. Someone whose love feels like home, not a war zone.
So if I seem like I want too much — it's only because I've spent too long pretending I didn't need anything at all.