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I don’t need love anymore.
It took me 51 years. A lot of heartache. A lot of wasted youth. A lot of time trying to be everyone else’s everything.
A pick me, tried and true.
I equated self-worth on a scale of:
What would you allow this f*cking idiot to do to you in hopes—just in hopes—that he’d stay?
And newsflash—he never did.
No matter how much I performed. No matter how many masks I wore. No matter how many times I said, “yes, I came.”
Never—not once, to this day—did any of them stay.
But it occurred to me—after all this desperation—I never missed a beat. Never missed work. Never missed an obligation. Good or bad.
And then I realized:
The only person who helped me navigate life,
who saw my mistakes,
who learned from them with me—
the only person who got me through my darkest times—
was me.
And no one could love quite like me.
It became a source of pride to allow it.
To even acknowledge that what I really wanted…I already had.
This is no disrespect to my family and friends.
It’s just that the only one who ever understood me
was me.
And so I let them.
I let them be whoever the f*ck they wanted to be—
because I was finally going to do the same for myself.
Only this time, there will be no more masks.
No more grand performances.
No more forced smiles.
Just me—giving myself the love, attention, intent, and consistency that I deserve.
I recently polled my friends and my community. I asked:
What do you think would happen if every woman on this planet just stopped performing at the exact same moment?
Not just sexually—I’m talking every single f*cking woman on Earth
just…stopped.
And all of them said the world would crumble within days.
Not years.
Not decades.
Not centuries.
Days.
I happen to agree.
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