The thing about growth?
It turns you into a shapeshifting emotional mess.
You become so many versions of yourself,
you forget which one you’re pretending to be on the dating app.
And then something weird happens:
You stop disliking people for their terrible choices.
Because—let’s be honest—you’ve made all of them. Twice.
When you’ve dumpster-dived your way through trauma,
emotionally enrolled in 17 different self-help cults,
and white-knuckled your way through healing your own character defects
(well… most of them)—
you start recognizing the exact brand of dysfunction in everyone else.
You’re like:
“Oh, you’re avoidant with a sprinkle of repressed rage and daddy issues? SAME.”
So no, you can’t hate them.
You want to. God, you really try.
But you just end up feeling sad.
Because you know what it’s like to suffer in silence.
You know how good it feels to finally shut up the inner saboteur
and realize you’re not as broken as you thought.
But they’re not there yet.
And apparently, you’re not allowed to drag people into healing against their will.
(Thanks a lot, ethics.)
You spend hours fantasizing about how to change the world—
one broken system at a time.
Education? Needs a total overhaul.
Healthcare? Don’t even get you started.
Addiction treatment? You’ve drafted five models and three TED Talks in your head
before lunch.
While other people are daydreaming about vacations,
you’re like:
“What if we integrated trauma-informed practices into school curriculums,
reformed insurance policies to actually cover mental health,
and stopped punishing people for trying to survive their pain?”
Honestly, it’s exhausting being this visionary and this emotionally wrecked at the same time.
But here you are—plotting global reform while crying in a hoodie over a granola bar wrapper
and wondering if you’re too much or just surrounded by people who aren’t enough.
Some days, the world feels too heavy.
You spend your day treating childhood trauma,
then go home to microwave a burrito
and cry over a dolphin documentary.
You know you’re not supposed to fix everyone.
But if someone handed you a magic wand?
Oh, you’d absolutely use it.
Not to save people—but to teach them how to save themselves.
Because you’re just codependent enough to believe in their potential
but too damn tired to carry them anymore.
And you’d do it anonymously, obviously.
Because God forbid someone thinks you’re trying to make it about you. Ew.
You’re the kind of person who loves people so deeply,
you want to squeeze the character defect right out of their soul,
hug them tightly, and then block them for your own mental health.
You love the broken parts.
The baggage.
Even the bits that smell like unhealed childhood grief and bad decisions.
You want someone to see you—really see you.
The one who can psychoanalyze a stranger in under 30 seconds,
make a child feel seen, calm a scared animal,
and still keep it together while absorbing other people’s deepest pain.
Until the dogs eat the last cookie off the counter.
And then you cry.
Not because of the cookie—
but because some kids don’t eat at all when school’s out.
And you feel everything.
You cry like a river flows,
because you don’t run from grief.
You respect it.
You grieve when you need to.
You’re not delicate like a flower.
You’re delicate like a bomb.
A raging, overthinking, warrior bomb
who wakes up every day
and chooses to give too many fucks—
again.
Because if you don’t,
who will?
That?
That’s your power.
Your curse.
Your vibe.
Your brand.
And the hardest part?
Most people can’t see you.
Not really.
Because people only see you through the lens of their own healing.
They can only recognize your depth to the extent that they’ve touched their own.
And that?
That’s the loneliest place in the world—
to give so much, knowing you may never receive it back.
But you’ve made peace with that.
Because maybe your role in this life
isn’t to receive a great love.
Maybe it’s to be the great love
everyone else so desperately needs.
I HAVE TOO MANY FUCKS TO GIVE 