Raspberry Iced M

My whole life, I’ve worked to be “chosen.”

Chosen by friends.
Chosen by men.
Chosen by family.
Chosen by anyone who could potentially look at me and decide I was work keeping.

I didn’t always know what I was doing. I thought that the way we show appreciation for relationships was through effort.

So it didn’t feel like chasing. It felt like trying.

Trying to be good.
Trying to be easy to love.
Trying to be whatever version of myself would make someone pause long enough to think, “her.”

If I was kinder, maybe I’d be chosen.
If I was quieter, maybe they’d stay.
If I forgave faster, gave more, needed less – maybe then.

And when I was chosen, even briefly, it felt like oxygen.

Proof.

Validation that I’d finally gotten something right. Evidence that hard work really does pay off. Trackable confirmation that I was respected, appreciated, valued, and loved.

But the problem with building your identity around being “chosen” is that it hands your worth to other people. And all of the sudden, their attention feels like stability. And their absence feels like collapse.

I didn’t notice how much of myself I was editing – or changing – until I started to feel…empty.

Not necessarily broken (although I am that, too). Just…undefined. Like I had spent so much time becoming what other people needed that I had no idea who I was, or what I needed. Or worse – I knew, but I didn’t think it mattered. Because being chosen mattered more.

There is an overwhelming grief associated with how much I have tolerated just to “keep.”

How many red flags I explained away.
How many boundaries I softened – or erased completely.
How many lunches I bought just to be invited out.
How many times I told myself, “This is enough,” when it wasn’t.

Change my hair. Wear the dress. Overspend. Laugh at the joke. Smile no matter the feeling.

Not because I didn’t see clearly. But because being chosen felt safer than being alone. I love people without hesitation. Without reservations. And without transaction. Yet – somehow – it has always seemed like I am not enough unless those I love benefit – in some way – by my existence.

But lately, something has been shifting inside my soul. Not dramatically or even all at once. But I’ve examined myself carefully enough over the last several months to ponder, “What if I stopped trying to be chosen?”

And I’m terrified. Because I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to “let” people leave. I don’t know how to stop fighting for or clinging to relationships.

If I’m not performing for approval, then what am I doing? If I’m not adjusting to be kept, then what happens when people leave?

Loneliness is an anxiety that looms over my head. As kids have grown, as family have created distance, as my spouse unfairly inherited a metaphorical clock on his life, I wonder how long I have left with anybody…as if every connection is just a ticking time bomb. I anticipate – in my mind – a future in isolation. And out of reflex, I find myself already withdrawing…because committing to people who will eventually leave seems like a waste of money, time, and energy.

And then I wonder if I’m introverted by choice, or if the choices I have made indirect to my personality have somehow forced me into seclusion.

Nevertheless, I have tried to commit to a different approach.

I choose to tell the truth, even if it costs me comfort.
I choose to notice how I feel, not just how I’m perceived.
I choose to stay with myself, even when it would be easier to abandon my own needs to keep someone else close.

And this isn’t the pretty part. I still feel the pull to be picked. Every day, I catch myself over-giving, over-extending, overworking, and wondering, “Am I enough for them?”

At my age, old habits – like constantly questioning myself – die hard.

But there are times now when another voice – like background noise – whispers to me.

“Am I enough for myself?”

And for the first time in my almost 39 years, I wonder if being chosen is the highest form of love.

Perhaps being known is higher. Perhaps it means more to be respected. Or maybe the safety that comes with being fully myself – without overage, without editing, without shrinking, without performing – should matter more.

The affliction of not being chosen is palpable in my spirit.
Embarrassingly so…

…and I wonder how much more work it would take to shift my focus – from being chosen by others – to choosing myself.

That seems selfish. And I’m not a selfish person.

But what if I didn’t trade peace for proximity?
What if I stopped ignoring my needs to earn someone’s attention or affection?
What if I do not call something “love” if I have to disappear to hold onto it?

My whole life, I’ve worked to be “chosen.”

But maybe the life I actually want can’t be built on someone else picking me or holding me or prioritizing me or even halfway reciprocating my effort.

Maybe – instead – it’ll be built on my standing still long enough to recognize that I was never unchosen to begin with.

I just never learned how to stand on my own side.

And I don’t know how to do it…yet. But maybe that’s worth my energy.