Heavy is the Head

Growing up—especially without my parents—means realizing I have to parent myself.

But damn, I did not sign up for all this. Why is my inner child an overachiever? Why can’t she just be normal and be okay with clocking in and out? Why must she always strive for more?

It feels like I’ve been having an awakening every other damn day. The shit is exhausting. I feel like I’m fast-tracking a journey that takes people years—and I’m moving through it in days.

It’s overwhelming, but I’ve decided to tackle it head on.

My issue now is understanding that I need rest. But rest feels like a disservice to the woman I’m meant to be. I see her waiting—I’m just trying to get to her and grab her hand.

She’s waited long enough. She was patient while I wallowed in depression and grief. Patient when I shrunk to fit into spaces I’d already outgrown. Patient when I felt worthless and had no self-respect. But I’ve picked myself up time and time again, and I won’t make her wait any longer.

Still, with that growth comes grief.

Because the very anchors that kept me grounded during my darkest times… are now the weights making my journey harder. That realization hurts.

But I guess that’s part of growth and evolution—to see the things that once comforted me become cages I have to break free from. To walk away from natural connections that felt safe and familiar, just to make room for the woman I’m becoming.

She’s on her way, and she needs space to thrive.

And even as she sets her sights and moves forward—away from anything that clouds the vision—the child in me still wants my parents.

Not for advice or even affirmation, but so they can witness. Like: Look at everything I was able to do in your absence. Look at everything I built in this hole you left me with.

I need them here to comfort me when I sit with the difficult decisions I’ve made for the sake of who I’m becoming.

I need them as a constant while my world shifts beneath my feet.

—

I’ve met a lot of selfless people.

I’m not one of them.

Not anymore—not after shedding my desire to fit in and the people-pleasing that came with it.

I am selfish.

And not only will I say it—I’ll roll around in it.

It will always be me before anybody else.

I used to say that when I felt bored or lonely, whining about wanting my person to find me, what I really needed to do was shut the hell up and enjoy my moments of comfort in solitude—because when my person comes, they’re COMING. And I won’t be able to hide. It’ll be clear, aligned, and I’ll finally understand why I had to pass on even the things that felt good.

I always thought I was talking about a connection with someone else.

But now, understanding where I am and what I’m shedding… I think I was talking about me.

My higher self is coming for me—and it’s going to cost me everything I’ve been hiding behind in the name of comfort and familiarity.

I’m holding space for my vision and protecting my energy. Anything that detracts from that is far too expensive for me right now; I can’t afford it—so I’m letting it go.

No matter how bad it hurts, regardless of how good it felt and how comforting it was, denying myself the future I can see so clearly hurts even more.

I cried to mourn the lost connection—but it turned into mourning the death of the version of me who stayed in situations just because they were comforting, even when they stunted my growth.

I cried because moving forward—not just when things are bad, but in strength and in love—means becoming someone who doesn’t settle.

Someone who won’t pause her evolution just because something feels familiar.

It’s only ahead from here—and I can’t look back.

I just hate that I have to keep learning and unfolding in loss.

Taking the leap of faith is scary, but not realizing my potential—squandering my talents and gifts, after years of believing I had none—is even scarier.