
When I first started working with my therapist back In 2017, I knew almost nothing about personal development. I hadn’t read any self-help books, listened to podcasts, or explored theories about depression, anxiety, or self-reflection. My understanding of anxiety extended only as far as researching anxiety attacks, trying to figure out how to stop them. I had no real awareness of what anxiety was, let alone how it showed up in my patterns or beliefs.
The first six months of therapy felt like walking through mud. I struggled to understand the concepts my therapist introduced, let alone implement the tools she offered me in my life. But at about the six-month mark, things started to click. I’d show up to our sessions and say, “Remember that thing you told me six months ago? I think I finally get it now.” Without fully realizing it, I had started to use some of the tools she’d given me.
It reminded me of this truth: things can’t really be taught. They have to be learned.
It’s one thing to hear a concept or see someone else do it. But until you live it, practice it, stumble through it—it’s just an idea. The real learning comes when you integrate it into your life, layer by layer, moment by messy moment.
As I started implementing these new ways of thinking, feeling and interacting with the world, I thought I "got it". I And maybe I did, to some degree. But about a year later, I started to see those same tools in a whole new way. Something would come up, and I’d hear my therapists voice In my head, and I’d suddenly I'd understand what she was talking about on an even deeper level. What I thought I “got” before turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg. That process kept repeating: I’d think I finally understood something, but then life would throw me a curveball, and I’d revisit a tool or idea and discover new layers of meaning.
Fast forward to last week.
In the years since I started my journey into self discovery, my husband and I have done a lot of work in our relationship. We’ve been to marriage counseling, unpacked attachment styles, and started to understand our patterns—how we react, cope, and show up for each other. For me, I’ve learned that I lean toward a disorganized attachment style.

Sometimes I feel anxious—afraid of disconnection, wanting all the answers and a ton of reassurance. Other times, I withdraw. I crave closeness but don’t always trust it. And when I have it, I don’t always know what to do with it. The fear of later disconnection sometimes keeps me from allowing myself to feel close. If that sounds like a hellish way to live, I can assure you, it absolutely is.
My husband and I had some tough conversations this week, and I started to see my cycle start to kick up. I started out feeling panicked, desperate to repair our lost connection. Everything in me wanted to beg and plead with him to just love me. Then, when that reaction seemed a little too big for the situation, my next instinct was to withdraw, shut down and shut him all the way out. Even though I partially gave into each of those feelings, somehow I was able to do the thing we talk about in the personal development world of stepping out of my situation and becoming the observer of it.
I stepped away from the conversation, grabbed my journal and started writing.
There was my pattern, staring back at me from the paper. Rejection, which happens to be one of my least favorite emotions alongside embarrassment and humiliation, was at the center of all of it. When I feel rejected, my brain literally goes into a panic. First, I desperately try to control the situation to regain connection, then when that doesn’t work (because when has desperation and forcefulness ever gotten you what you wanted) I withdraw completely.
The underlying, unconscious belief to all of this is something like “ I’m unworthy of love and connection.”
Woah, that’s intense.
To be clear, I absolutely don’t believe that about myself on a conscious, logical level.
A lot of times, unconscious beliefs are born from our actual experiences, often in childhood, and they settle in, living quietly inside us. That’s where “I’m unworthy of love and connection” came from for me. It wasn’t a rational decision I made as an adult; it was shaped by the way my younger self interpreted the world.
For me, that belief wasn’t created from one big traumatic event—it was a collection of small moments that added up. A teacher bribing me with a Clifford the Big Red Dog book if I could make it through a day without crying because I missed my mom. Adults in my life laughing when I expressed emotions like fear or sadness. People I looked up to telling me “Don’t be such a baby” or “Stop being a wimp.”
In my very early years, I went through a stage where I struggled to fall asleep on my own. I would beg my mom to stay with me until I drifted off. What I needed in those moments was comfort and reassurance. But what I got was often exasperation, disconnection—and eventually, anger from my dad, who was likely overwhelmed and exhausted from my keeping the whole house up at night.
At the time, I didn’t understand that their reactions—the laughing, the dismissiveness, or the frustration—weren’t about me. They were about their own emotional capacity and how hard it can be for adults to juggle life’s demands. But as a child, I couldn’t see that. I internalized it differently. I craved connection and reassurance, but had no idea how to get it.
So I learned to turn it off. I started to recognize when my big feelings weren’t going to get me what I needed, and I quickly shifted to shutting down. I remember feeling so proud of myself in fifth grade, holding back tears on the bus on the way to school. But the truth is, I hadn’t learned how to soothe myself—I had just learned how to suppress my emotions. To reject before I could be rejected.
This week, when I recognized that familiar pattern resurfacing, I realized the real work wasn’t about fixing my reaction or even repairing the moment of disconnection with my husband. The real work was about soothing that inner child in me. I had to let her know that she was worthy of love and connection—especially from me. I had to be the one to show up for her.
When I recognized my pattern this week, I realized the real work wasn’t about fixing my reaction or even repairing the connection with my husband. It was about soothing that inner child in me. It was about letting her know she was worthy of love and connection—especially from me. I had to be the one to show up for her. For years, I’ve handed that responsibility to other people, hoping they would care for her in ways they couldn’t, because they don’t know her like I do.
So, I sat with that feeling of rejection. Instead of running from it or trying to fix it, I talked to it. I reassured that small, scared part of me that she didn’t need to prove anything, that she was safe and loved no matter what.
Later in the week, I invited my husband to dinner. On the surface, it was about repairing some of the distance between us, but it was also about showing up for that little girl in me. I wanted her to see that we could face scary, awkward, vulnerable situations and still be okay. That I had her back, no matter what.
The dinner was a little awkward. It didn’t magically resolve anything. I caught myself wanting more connection, more reassurance. And when we got home, that familiar, knee-jerk reaction popped up: the urge to criticize myself for being vulnerable.
I was putting on my pajamas, mumbling under my breath, when I heard it: You’re such an idiot. The words were right there, ready to spill out—like a reflex.

In that moment, it hit me: no wonder that small, innocent part of me feels so terrified of rejection. She isn’t just scared of other people rejecting her—she’s scared of my rejection.
So, instead of spiraling into self-criticism, I stopped. I put my hand over my heart and told her, “You are brave and courageous. I’m proud of you for showing up, even when it’s hard.”In the past, I might have missed this moment altogether, swept away by the same cycle that had kept me stuck for years. I’ve spent a lot of time learning about self-compassion, practicing it and understanding how to give myself the kindness I need. But this week, I saw it on a whole new level.
None of this work is “one and done.” Healing, growing, evolving—it’s all ongoing. I thought I understood self-compassion, and in a lot of ways I did. But every time I think I’ve reached a certain level, life presents me with a new situation, a new layer of myself to work through, and I see the lesson in a whole new light.
Sharing all of this with you feels a little scary, but I hope that by being open about my experience, it might offer you a way in—a way to look at your own cycles and patterns with curiosity and compassion.
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