I started to feel it again—that deep, suffocating heaviness, the familiar weight of worthlessness I thought I had left behind. This time, however, it didn’t come alone; it brought anxiety along for the ride. As I lay in bed, tossing and turning, I turned to my breath, striving to remind myself that this isn’t the truth. Yet, my mind, in its relentless pursuit of chaos, fights back, whispering, “I’m BACK!” A wave of nausea rises within me, a visceral reminder that I believed I had banished this darkness to the farthest corners of the universe. But there it is, rearing its ugly head once more.
My mind taunts me, dragging me through the years I dedicated to building a life—pouring my heart into work, studying, nurturing a business, and sharing my voice through my podcast. Yet, in the fervor of that pursuit, I let vital things slip away. I stopped waking up early for my run group; I neglected fleeting moments of joy, choosing instead the relentless grind of work. The relationships I tried to cultivate have become little more than superficial connections, surface-level and virtual.
Returning to my home state was supposed to be another journey down memory lane, a chance to reconnect after years of absence. I’ve done this a handful of times in the last couple of years, but after more than two decades away, I found that life had moved on without me. I reached out, yearning to revive old bonds, only to hear, “Aww, I’d love to see you, but we’re busy with the kids.” Even some of my own family seemed too preoccupied to carve out time for a visit with me and my children. The loneliness crashed over me like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for breath in its wake. I moved away, so this feels like my fault. Yuck!
At 12:50 AM, I realize with a heavy heart that my choice to move away came at a steep price: the ability to nurture deep connections with those I once held dear. I became so consumed with building my family and my career that I lost sight of the need to nourish old friendships.
Now, amid the hormonal chaos of perimenopause—the loud crash of dwindling progesterone and estrogen—I see the truth: I’ve been a workaholic, desperately avoiding the sting of rejection that has haunted me my entire life.
You see, I’ve felt unwanted and rejected since the day I was born. I teach others that what we place at the forefront of our minds inevitably shapes how our brains scan and filter the world, validating what we tell ourselves. And I’ve been filtering the world to confirm that people don’t like me or want to spend time with me. Huh!
How do I know I’ve felt unwanted my entire life? Because my own wonderful mother, in her struggle with severe postpartum depression, conveyed that energy to me. I can still remember walking into kindergarten, feeling the weight of eyes upon me, sensing that I was somehow unlikable—even at five years old. That feeling of rejection, of not being good enough, has shadowed me into adulthood. And though I’ve done a damn good job of reframing those thoughts, reminding myself that they aren’t true, today feels different. I know it’s not real; these are just emotions I’m experiencing, but they hit me hard, pulling me into a pitiful spiral.
I’ve tried to reprogram my fear of rejection, crafting excuses for it, but the reality is difficult to swallow: I didn’t hold onto my relationships, and it seems they didn’t hold onto me either. What does this mean for me? Did those connections ever really matter? I’ve always assumed I could pick up friendships where we left off, that time would mean nothing, but that’s not the case for everyone.
So, where do I go from here? Honestly, I want to crawl into a hole and disappear. The only light in my life is my kids, yet with these hormonal shifts, I find myself drowning in sadness over how quickly time has slipped away and the anxiety that soon they, too, will be gone. My heart feels like it’s breaking, and I’m supposed to be the one holding it all together. I have the remedies, the therapies, the answers for everyone else. Why can’t I seem to fix this for myself?
Of course, I can, but the hurt runs deep. It stems from not having someone close, someone who truly understands me—the way I long to be understood. Life becomes unbearably lonely when you’re in building mode, and when it’s all built, who’s left to share it with? I find myself standing on the precipice, staring into the void of isolation, yearning for connection, and facing the hard truth that maybe, just maybe, I need to reach out and ask for help.
Perhaps it’s time to summon the courage to rebuild the bridges I once thought were lost and to replace the belief that people don’t want to be around me with the truth: I am worthy of love and meaningful connections. This shift isn’t just wishful thinking; it’s about reclaiming my power. I’ll remind myself that relationships require effort and that it’s okay to reach out and express my desire for connection. I can envision a future where I actively cultivate these relationships, free from fear, believing that there are people who want to reconnect and share life’s moments with me. While the journey may have its challenges, I can face them with renewed purpose, embracing the truth that I deserve companionship.
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