I Had Never Been Loved
I grew up in a pretty large family, with five kids. I was next to the youngest. Growing up, my mom’s two eldest children always made me feel as if I was unwanted and unlovable. I also carried the feeling that both of my parents were more inclined to love my older sister and younger sister more than me. They are my only full-blood siblings.
My older sister is the smartest. She is a perfectionist, always stoic. My younger sister is adorable and had blonde curly hair and beautiful blue eyes. Then there was me, the ugly duckling in the middle of greatness. My dad always made me feel like I wasn’t smart enough. My mom made me feel as if I was never pretty enough. I don’t remember growing up in a house full of compliments. I remember a smack upside the head if I got things wrong, and comments about how difficult it was to find clothes that would fit me.
Needless to say, I felt unloved.
Even as I grew older, I had friends, even close friends, that I believed only kept me around for what I could do for them, not because of who I was. In romantic relationships, I was loved deeply, but I could never truly see it for myself.
The past few years have brought a lot of growth. I realize now that I worked too hard trying to figure out everyone else’s love language and give that to them, while my own cup remained continuously empty. It has been hard. Romantic relationships were ruined because I hated myself, not because they hated me. Friendships look different now, too. I once believed people stayed because of what I could do for them, but I can see now that many of them had quietly been there for me all along. Family relationships have also shifted, as I have come to understand that much of what I felt from them was their own trauma being mirrored outward, their dislike of themselves spilling onto me.
I had never been loved.
Until one day I looked in the mirror.
And for the first time, I really looked.
I saw my kindness.
My generosity.
My beautiful lips.
My warm eyes.
All the things I spent a lifetime refusing to see.
For the first time, I began to wipe the mirror clean.
I started writing mantras and placing them where I could see them.
I repeated to myself that I was enough.
Not enough for them.
Enough for me.
I am enough.
I am worthy of my own love.
My own forgiveness.
The same grace I would so freely give to everyone else but never to myself.
And then I realized something.
I had been loved.
Finally
By me.