Facing Myself: A Journey Through Vulnerability and Self-Doubt


“You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” – Buddha


I love my son. He’s one of the best people I know, and probably the only person I can truly count on. I know he worries about me—rightfully so, perhaps. I wish he didn’t. I don’t like it, but I guess that’s part of being vulnerable and open with someone. He deserves to know what’s happening with his father, but I still feel selfish sharing it all. I try to ask about his life, to keep the focus on him, but lately, every conversation seems to circle back to me. I wish it didn’t. I feel like I should be the one reassuring him, not the other way around.

I have three kids, but I’m only in communication with one—my son. Right now, I can’t even begin to explain why I’m not in touch with my two daughters. It’s painful to talk about, and in that situation, I just can’t say anything. Still, I find myself bragging that my son is like me, though deep down, I know he’s not. He’s so much better. He’s smarter, more emotionally intelligent, sensitive, and mature. He’s one of the best people you could ever meet, and I’m lucky enough to call him my son.

He’s also one of the few relationships I haven’t screwed up—maybe the only one. And I can’t help but wonder why I keep sabotaging every other relationship I’m in. It’s a pattern I can’t seem to break, and it leaves me feeling emotionally alone. Maybe that’s because I am emotionally alone. Writing all this down is making me anxious. People say journaling helps, but for me, it just dredges up emotions I’ve buried deep, and I don’t want to face them. It even feels physical, like I’m unearthing something I’ve avoided for so long. And at the core of it all is my struggle with relationships.

I think my difficulty with relationships stems from one harsh truth: I don’t like myself. How can I truly care for others when I can’t extend that compassion to myself? I need to start being gentler, kinder, and learn to love myself. But that’s so hard when I’ve spent most of my life disliking who I am. I’m pretty sure no one knows this about me—I’ve always portrayed confidence, putting on a front like I’ve got it all together. “Fake it till you make it,” they say, but I’ve never made it. And as I get older, I’m starting to believe I never will.

I’m trying so hard to pull myself out of this funk. But day after day, I feel my faith slipping further away. I’m scared—terrified—of the future. And I don’t know how to face it.

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