RECLAIMING THE PARTS OF ME I THREW AWAY TO SURVIVE
I used to cut pieces of myself off just to keep the peace.
I dimmed the fire I held within me.
I softened the edges, though I still looked rough, even angry.
I made myself smaller, sweeter kind of, quieter, all because the world told me survival depended on obedience.
And you know what?
It worked.
For a while.
Until it didn’t.
Until the silence felt like suffocation.
Until the “safer” version of me was nothing but a ghost walking around in my skin.
So here’s the truth:
I’m done surviving.
I’m done shrinking.
I’m done throwing away parts of myself just to make other people comfortable.
This is reclamation season.
This is the great unmuting.
This is the Bad Breed resurrection.
THE OLD DREAMS I BURIED?
I’m digging them out with my bare hands.
The dreams I let die because people told me they were “too big,”
“too loud,”
“too unrealistic”?
Yeah, those are the ones I’m resurrecting FIRST.
The world doesn’t get to tell me what’s possible anymore.
If the dream still haunts me, it still belongs to me.
THE PARTS OF MY PERSONALITY I MUTED?
They’re back, and louder.
The mouthy version of me.
The wild version of me.
The sharp-tongued, boundary-holding, take-no-shit version of me?
She’s not only back,
she’s driving the damn car now.
I used to tuck her away because she scared people.
Now I keep her around because she protects me.
Feral looks good on me.
Honest looks good on me.
Unapologetic looks right on me.
THE VERSION OF ME I THREW AWAY?
She’s rising, and she’s pissed she ever had to hide.
She remembers everything I buried:
- The dreams I abandoned
- The power I downplayed
- The voice I softened
- The fire I smothered
- The passion I was told to tone down
And she’s not asking for permission anymore.
She’s not waiting for approval.
She’s not watering herself down.
She’s not here to blend in.
She’s here to take up space.
She’s here to reclaim everything she threw away just to make it through the storm.
She didn’t survive to stay silent.
She survived to become dangerous again.
Reclamation isn’t gentle.
It’s loud, messy, emotional, and most necessary.
I’m not healing quietly.
I’m not coming back soft.
I’m coming back with claws.
I’m coming back with boundaries.
I’m coming back for everything I left behind.
Survival mode is over.
Rebuilding mode is here.
And this time?
I’m not throwing away a single piece of myself to make anyone else comfortable.
If the real me is “too much,”
they can leave.
I’m not shrinking anymore.
I’m expanding.
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