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We struggle with contradictions as humans.
We like things clean, labeled, and easy to sort: good or bad, weak or strong, pretty or ugly, confident or insecure.
It gives us a sense of control.
But just because something is categorized neatly doesn’t mean it’s true. That’s the brain doing its job. Our brain doesn’t prioritize truth—it prioritizes efficiency. Its primary directive is to keep us alive, not to get things right.
Our ancestors didn’t need an accurate brain as much as a fast one. If a caveman was ambushed by a predator hiding behind a bush and barely escaped, he wouldn’t logically assess whether all bushes were dangerous. His brain would take the shortcut: “Bushes = danger.” And that association—however flawed—might keep him alive.
The problem? Our brains still do this. We make snap associations. We judge, oversimplify, project. And in today’s world, that doesn’t just lead to paranoia. It leads to shame, division, and the kind of moral rigidity that dehumanizes everyone involved.
We turn survival instincts into identity: Agreeable = good. Disagreeable = bad.
And here’s where I had to wake up to my own paradox.
I spent much of my life trying to be good. Likeable. Palatable. I contorted myself into someone who wouldn’t ruffle feathers. Someone who said the right things. Someone who smiled even when something felt wrong.
Because I believed that if I was liked, I was safe. And if I was safe, I was good.
But I was wrong.
In trying to be liked, I abandoned my values. I didn’t speak up when things felt off. I prioritized harmony over truth. I thought I was keeping the peace—but I was betraying myself.
Eventually, I couldn’t ignore the ache any longer. The anger. The resentment. The part of me that felt guilty for having “bad” feelings—especially toward people I was supposed to love.
But that was the moment things started to change.
I began to embrace my shadow. I stopped striving to be likable. I let myself be more direct, more boundaried, more honest.
I started saying no. I called out things that didn’t sit right. I made people uncomfortable. And yes, some people left.
But I realized something important: there were people who were already pulling away—long before I ever set a boundary.
Which meant it was never really about being agreeable. It was about me finally showing up fully, without apology, and watching what stayed and what fell away.
But for the first time, I didn’t leave myself.
That’s when I realized: it was in embracing what I thought was “bad” that I actually became good.
Not the performative kind of good. Not the kind that depends on praise or belonging.
The real kind. The kind rooted in integrity. In truth. In knowing myself and standing beside that self no matter who approves.
That’s the paradox.
I had to become the “bad girl” to discover my goodness. And I wouldn’t trade that clarity for anyone’s comfort.
If you’ve spent your life trying to be “good,” maybe pause and ask: Good according to whom? At what cost? And what would it mean to be whole instead?
Sometimes the path back to your truth means letting go of who you were taught to be—and embracing who you’ve always been.
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