Note to Self

DECATUR, AL 2025

We all want to be seen, admired, desired, chosen, loved. We die without touch, without connection. We are pack animals. We are raw and primal. We have needs.

I’m interested in the interplay of intellectual, emotional, and physical intimacy. I don’t believe I’ve ever experienced all three within a single relationship. There’s something so incredibly vulnerable about giving oneself so completely to another that most of us don’t allow ourselves this holy trinity. We hold back at least one with our partners, or carefully decide which ones to share and when—like cards in a deck. We wisely hold back even more with others.

I understand not risking the pain, the heartache. The uncertainty of trusting someone so thoroughly, so ultimately.

When we’re in relationships, we stop being honest and transparent. We don’t want to hurt our partner. We don’t want them to think poorly of us, judge us, deny us, or reject us. This is the emotional intimacy I speak of.

This is the very moment things begin to unravel. The beginning of the end, if you will. When someone tells me they’re having difficulty in this area, they usually say it’s because they don’t want to hurt their partner.

Meanwhile, they’re suffering. This withholding hurts everyone involved. There is always a way to communicate with love. Even the most difficult things must be communicated. Don’t let the small stuff slide—talk about it. It makes good practice for the heavy, scary stuff. It’s not easy. It’s the most uncomfortable and sacred thing. It is hard—and we must do hard things to become our best selves.

We must believe and understand that we will hurt one another in all our relationships. It’s inevitable. We’ll communicate poorly, forget important things, and behave selfishly. When we make these mistakes, we must apologize sincerely. An apology comes with a promise to change our behavior. If you don’t want to—or can’t—change your behavior, don’t apologize.

“I’m sorry you feel that way” is not an apology. The person saying it is not holding themselves accountable, nor are they offering to change.

“You’re right. I didn’t consider your feelings” is more accurate. If you’re unwilling to apologize sincerely, maybe you don’t want to be in a relationship.

We will make mistakes because we are human and designed as intended—with all our flaws.

Our operating system is buggy.

It takes a lot of work to keep our code updated and maintained. We constantly have to run checks on old code and update it. Think about your early programmers: did they know what they were doing? Did they have any business entering data into that young mind? They probably didn’t know the right languages or have the right tools.

Since last year, I’ve been going back to my old code a lot. It’s messy. I’ve had to make a lot of updates, disconnect synapses, and rewire the hardware.

I’m starting to learn things I should’ve learned in a more developmental period, when my brain was more adaptable and malleable. I’m learning how to communicate with my inner, fragile children. They are so hurt and neglected. There’s a five-year-old in there who didn’t get to make many friends. All the moving around made it hard to keep the ones she did make. She learned not to get attached. She never learned how to maintain a friendship. She didn’t get to exchange Valentine’s cards or give birthday or Christmas presents. She has a colossal friendship gap.

There were so many secrets to keep. My parents were ashamed—of our poverty, my dad’s drinking—and I inherited that shame. There were secrets about myself I kept, too. I didn’t realize how much this affected my adult friendships.

I’ve been a terrible friend in the past.

I hid some of the most essential parts of myself. I hid who I really was—too afraid to be known. These secrets were just bad data. Untruths. Perfectionism wrapped in a shame blanket.

With self-care comes self-knowledge.

Now, I can tell the truth about my life, my past, and who I really am. Now that I care for myself, I can learn about myself—and I can be a better friend and human. One thing I’ve recently discovered, and been shocked by, is that good people—great people—still may not be my people.

I’m not talking about kind-hearted in-laws who love me deeply and still voted poorly. I mean people who align with me in values and politics. People who are emotionally intelligent, thoughtful, and capable. People I should be able to be close with, but can’t—because they’re unable to consider my needs and feelings. Some of these are people I’ve loved deeply, for a long time. Walking away is hard.

That little five-year-old cries out in despair, desperate for friendship. To care for her, I have to create distance and protect us. I have to talk to her. She is long-suffering, constantly crying, mad about what she’s been denied. I let her steer the vessel when I got triggered. But she has no business out here in this real and present time. Her reality is the past. During times of separation, she would throw a tantrum—if I let her.

Learning this in middle age is difficult, exhausting, and enlightening.

I’m learning that obligations are also exhausting. I’ve taken on responsibilities I had no passion for. I sacrificed my time and energy for things that couldn’t satisfy the effort. Sometimes those risks are worth it—but it helps to know yourself first.

I’ve made great sacrifices for people and causes I thought worthy. But I didn’t take care of myself. I didn’t learn enough about what I was committing to. I didn’t slow down to understand the cost. These obligations became burdens. And because I’m highly functional, I met them with flying colors and great success—but it brought me little joy and depleted my resources.

I’m learning that just because I can do something doesn’t mean I should.

My Enneagram type is 3. I constantly want to prove I’m capable. I crave approval. I don’t care what people think of me—unless it’s about competence. That’s the one place it feels intolerable to be misunderstood.

This trait has driven me to take big risks. It’s led to great success—in my career, in my volunteer work. But now I need to take different kinds of risks.

Risks like speaking the truth about who I am. Naming my needs. Communicating boundaries—early, often, and always.

I want to live this way consistently. I want to be honest and transparent with the people I care about. I want to believe we’re all doing our best.

I’ve learned so much these past few months. Myths dispelled. The hard work of real connection. The truth that love is not enough to keep people together. I didn’t just read it and understand it rationally—I felt it in my bones.

I searched for something that could help me forgive myself for past decisions. For someone to tell me how to forgive my exes. Instead, I found something else. I read Pia Mellody’s Facing Love Addiction. A book that has been in my house for years. I finally read it. The language was exactly what I needed. Now I know what I’m responsible for—my behavior, my patterns, the people I chose. Why they behaved the way they did.

It’s not about forgiveness. There’s nothing to forgive. We had our reasons—very good reasons. We did our best. Nothing was malicious or manipulative.

We literally did the best we could.

Once I learned that, another part of me went quiet.

I’ve written before about The Beacons, and how insight and self-love turned down their volume. They still pop up now and then—that may be my burden—but they’re manageable now.

After reading Facing Love Addiction, another obsession went quiet. A sexual compulsion, fueled by HRT and misunderstanding, just... disappeared. Poof.

I am so relieved to know I’m a Love Addict—not a Love and Sex Addict.

Thank you, Pia Mellody. Thank you, Brené Brown. Thank you, Amir Levine and Rachel Heller.

We need to not only learn about ourselves, but learn about each other before we risk intimacy—our deal-breakers, our gray areas, our unknowns.

I didn’t know I had deal-breakers. Mind blown.

To understand someone’s motivations, learn their Enneagram type. Communicate compassionately. If you’re going to be physical, learn each other’s Erotic Blueprint. Understand not just what our bodies do, but what actually arouses us.

Sometimes I feel old and tired.

And sometimes, I feel so new and excited—lit up by the endless possibility of life.

I’m learning that loss—the final kind, when you’ll never see someone again—is the most painful. And it’s not the same as changing the shape of a relationship.

My five-year-old doesn’t understand the difference.

Last week, the universe gave me a sharp juxtaposition to make it clear.

A friend left this planet. Quietly. Comfortably. Deliberately. It ripped my heart out. Made my legs jelly.

She was honest about her struggles. Honest about how painful it was to be here.

Knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

On the same day I learned of her passing, I was handed the opportunity to change the shape of another relationship—not my choice. Now I have to decide how to move forward.

The little one sobs and squeezes my heart. I tell her it’s not the same. She rages back: It is.

She’s difficult. Stubborn. She needs comfort. I must tread carefully, so she learns to trust me—so she knows I will take care of her.

All of this is new. And all of it is fascinating.

Looking back, I think I approached my codependence and addiction like a design problem. A problem I didn’t fully understand and didn’t have the courage to research—until I hit absolute rock bottom.

I haven’t discovered anything new. It’s just new to me.

I’ve started building a recovery plan—one just for me. A personal design blueprint. Something to practice, maintain, and protect.

It looks like:
Exercise.
Eating well.
Writing.
Making art.
Making and keeping worthy friendships.
Travel.
Fun.
Weirdness.
Extroversion.
Wearing what I want.
Doing what I love.
Being fully me, no matter where I am or who I’m with.

I will never make myself small again. I will never take up less space, keep my mouth shut, or stay when I need to walk out.

The power of it is breathtaking.

And beautiful.