Confessions on Rejection: I Always Expect(ed) to Be Rejected

I’ve never known what it feels like to be someone’s first choice.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting to be chosen. Not because I didn’t want to be, but because it stopped feeling realistic. Rejection started following me quietly — not like a storm, but like a shadow. A constant, familiar ache.

When people leave, I barely flinch. I already knew they would. I’ve trained myself to expect it, to prepare for it, to numb myself just in time. It’s not even dramatic anymore. It’s routine. Someone pulls away, goes silent, grows cold — and I say to myself, “There it is. Again.”

I used to think that if I loved harder, showed up more, became softer, sweeter, quieter — maybe then I’d be kept. Maybe then I’d be chosen. But life has a way of silencing those dreams. People I gave everything to left without looking back. Friends I held space for vanished when I needed them most. Even family — those bound by blood — made me feel like a burden.

Eventually, I convinced myself that I was simply not meant to be “the one.” Not the favorite. Not the safe place. Just the extra. The backup plan. The one who understands. The one who is too “strong” to need anything back.

And the worst part? Even when someone tries to love me, I still expect the ending. I still hold my breath. I wait for the disappointment. I rehearse how I’ll comfort myself when it inevitably falls apart. I’m so used to pain that even joy makes me suspicious.

I’ve chosen people who couldn’t love me. I’ve opened up to those who weren’t safe. I’ve handed over my heart to people who barely wanted to hold it. Not because I didn’t see the red flags — but because part of me believed that was all I deserved. Rejection has shaped my story so deeply, I no longer recognize the parts of me that were once full of hope.

And yet… I keep going.

Even when I feel invisible, I still write. I still speak. I still hold others when they fall apart, even when no one notices me breaking. Not because I’m strong — but because it’s the only thing I know how to do. Sometimes, you don’t show up because you’re the strongest. You show up because it's all you can do that day. And sometimes, you help not because you have plenty, but because it’s the only good thing left to give.

I’ve learned something along the way, though. The problem was never that I was unworthy of love. The problem was that I gave it to people who didn’t know how to hold it. People who had no idea how to love something so honest, so raw, so real.

It wasn’t me.

And it’s not you either, if this story sounds familiar.

If you’ve ever sat silently in a room full of people and still felt alone...
If you’ve ever given someone everything and they gave you just enough to keep you hoping...
If you’ve ever begged God to just let someone stay this time...Or to help you forget someone or give you strength to let them go...I have prayed this painfully. 
I see you.

We don’t always get to rewrite our beginning. But we do get to choose how the story ends. And maybe, just maybe, the healing begins not when someone else finally chooses us — but when we finally choose ourselves.

When we stop shrinking. When we stop begging. When we stop asking, “Why not me?”

I want to stop living like love is a prize I have to earn. I want to wake up one day and not feel like I’m waiting to be worthy. I want to believe — with every part of me — that my heart is not too much, not too soft, not too complicated.

It’s enough.

I’m enough.

Even if no one claps for me. Even if no one shows up. Even if no one stays.

I will.

And that, after everything — is my confession, my truth, and my beginning.

A Birthday Wrapped in Fear, Not Balloons

 

Today is my birthday.

But there’s no joy in this breath. There’s no dancing candlelight in my soul. 

Last year, I was angry on this day. Deeply. Bitterly. And then, a friend died—not by coincidence, but by divine confrontation. It felt like God was blackmailing me into gratitude. "You’re angry about your life? Here—watch it be taken from someone else."

And so I folded. I said thank you. I whispered gratitude with trembling lips. But deep down, I wasn’t grateful. I was terrified.

What Does It Mean to Be Alive When You Feel Dead Inside?

I am breathing, yes. But living? No.

I have nothing to show. 

All I have are years—a lot of them now—and a long trail of almosts, maybes, and could-have-beens.

I watch people younger than me build legacies from scratch. I see people with fewer opportunities thrive in systems I can’t even touch. And me? I’m here. Existing. Floating in a fog of barely-ness.

The Guilt of Feeling Unseen

Even writing this feels like a sin. Because I know what the world will say.

“She’s alive.”
“She’s healthy.”
“She should be grateful.”
“She should visit a cancer ward before complaining.”

I’ve heard it all. And maybe they’re right.

Maybe I’m ungrateful. Maybe I’m childish for wanting more. Maybe I’m wrong for crying on my birthday when others are buried before they see theirs.

But let me say this, in bold and raw truth:

Being grateful doesn’t mean I don’t feel the ache.
Being alive doesn’t mean I’m not drowning.

The Quiet Failures That Scream the Loudest

I feel like I’ve failed. My children especially. My parents. Everyone. Yes, my children are loved. Yes, I am present. I kiss them. I hug them. I listen when they cry and celebrate when they laugh.

But I know love isn’t a roof.
Love isn’t school fees.
Love doesn’t feed the future.

And though I give them all the heart I have, I fear I’m cheating them out of something more certain, more successful.

I fear they’ll grow up and say, “Our mother was kind, but she couldn’t give us a better life.”

And the weight of that fear… it crushes me daily.

Aging Without Arrival: When Time Moves But You Stand Still

Every year, the clock ticks louder.

It says, “You’re running out of time.”
It says, “You’re still here, with empty hands.”
It says, “You said next year would be better. But look.”
And it points at my broken promises to myself.

I have tried. I have started. I have built. But it always ends in smallness. In shadows. In being unnoticed. Like the world doesn’t hear my voice, no matter how loud I scream inside.

God, Are You Angry With Me?

I wonder if God is disappointed too.
If He looks at me and thinks, “This is not what I made you for.”
If He sees my guilt and my grief and turns His face away.

Because even my prayers feel like apologies.

“I’m sorry for feeling this way.”
“I’m sorry I’m not better.”
“I’m sorry I’m not stronger.”

And still, I pray. Still, I believe. Even if it’s with a tired heart.

What If This Is All There Is?

That’s the scariest part.
Not death.
But the idea that this is life.

That maybe this is as good as it gets. That maybe the story doesn’t turn. That maybe I’ll always be the one who "almost" made it. That maybe joy is for others, and I’m just here to clap for them while I bleed in silence.

But I’m Still Here. And That Must Mean Something

Even in this sadness.
Even in this aching birthday.
Even in this empty-feeling age.

I am still here.
I showed up for my life, even when it broke me.
I wake up. I care. I cry. I laugh when I can.
I carry people, even when I can’t carry myself.

And that is not nothing.

To Anyone Else Crying On Their Birthday

You are not ungrateful.
You are not a failure.
You are not invisible.

You are human. And this world sometimes gives us more pain than it gives us praise. But you have breath. You have awareness. You have the courage to name your sorrow—and that is divine.

There is no shame in being sad, even while alive. There is no crime in hoping for more, even while thankful.

“Happy Birthday, dear soul.  That’s the fight.”

You Have No Idea How Quickly People Turn On You: The True Horror of Becoming the Hated Spouse

                               Pic: AI

 Eleanor’s Descent Into Fear

What happens when the person who once whispered I love you in the dark now becomes the person you fear will take your life?

Eleanor never imagined her world would shrink into a shell of silence, dread, and paranoia. On the outside, she had what looked like a peaceful separation—two adults parting ways. But behind closed doors, behind every whispered phone call, every delayed knock at the door, every unfamiliar face that lingered too long near her driveway—was Boris, a man who didn’t just fall out of love, but grew into hate.

They say when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time. But how do you believe that someone you once trusted with your life now thrives on the thought of destroying it?

Boris never screamed. He never hit her with fists. He never needed to. He used silence, manipulation, and control as weapons. He was the architect of Eleanor’s isolation. He built her cage brick by brick—with words disguised as concern, with subtle threats masked as jokes, with favors that came with the cost of compliance.

The most dangerous men are not the ones with loud tempers. The most dangerous are the ones who operate in the shadows, quietly recruiting others to carry out their cruelty while they keep their hands clean.

Abuse in the Shadows

Eleanor’s life became a theatre of psychological warfare. Friends disappeared. Family stopped calling. Neighbors avoided eye contact. Her own children, confused and afraid, were used as pawns in a game that never should have involved them.

Boris let other people do the dirty work. A sudden job loss. A false complaint. A hacked account. He was everywhere and nowhere. Every time Eleanor began to feel safe, something would happen—a car tailing her, a strange knock at midnight, her son returning from a visit with bruised emotions and a new hatred in his voice.

She knew. She knew Boris was still orchestrating it all.

You are living, but everyday you are haunted and wanted. Every breathe feels like it is borrowed. 

The fear never really leaves. Eleanor started locking every door. She installed cameras, changed numbers, avoided certain streets. But paranoia is never satisfied. Paranoia feeds on facts—and the fact was, Boris hated her. Still.

Not just hated her

He wanted her to suffer until she had no breath left in her. 

—He wanted her erased.  by frustration, by poverty, by any injustice she might face, By every bad thing imaginable!! 

He had made her the enemy, and in his story, enemies must be punished. His hate extended past the marriage, past the divorce, past the years of separation. He turned everyone into weapons—friends, systems, even the children.

And still, the question lingered: Would he try to kill her? Would he send someone? Would he do it himself?

Boris was a coward in the purest form. Not just afraid of consequences, but afraid of showing the world his true face. He would rather infect others with his venom than spill it himself.

He would never raise a gun—but he was too lazy to raise one. Too afraid to stain his hands
He would never use a knife—he tried once. 
He would hit her, but the worst pain came from weaponizing her children's love, her credibility, her peace.

He would rather they starve because then, he would retrieve their dried-up bodies and stand to tell people, "I told you so."

And that is the real violence—the slow murder of someone’s reputation, safety, and sense of self. The kind of murder that doesn’t show up in autopsy reports, but lives in every anxious heartbeat and sleepless night.

Never believed-What a shame!!!

“He’s such a great guy.” “He’d never do that.” “Maybe you’re overreacting.”

That’s what Eleanor heard when she tried to speak.

Because Boris wore the perfect mask. The charming man. The community helper. The doting father. The good guy.

But behind the scenes, he was poisoning everything she touched. And when she finally tried to run—he didn’t chase her. He didn’t need to.

He just waited. And watched. And set things in motion so that wherever she went, the hatred followed.

Living With a Ghost That Refuses to Die

Eleanor lives alone now. Her house is quiet, but never peaceful. She works, she raises her children, she pretends.

But the fear lives too. In the quiet moments. In the flicker of doubt. In the mail that goes missing. In the anonymous call.

She knows what Boris is capable of. Not because he ever screamed—but because he never had to.

He weaponized the world around her.

When Hate Refuses to Let Go

“You have no idea how quickly people turn on you,” Eleanor whispered once, “until they already have. Until you wake up one morning and realize—you’re the villain in someone else’s story. And in that story, the villain always dies.”

Boris still lives. But so does Eleanor.

And every day she wakes up and chooses to live—is a rebellion. A refusal to be erased. A declaration that she will not go quietly, even if he wishes she would.