I’m tired of this mind of mine, so tender, it bruises with every word. The one that gets hurt at the slightest comment.
The one obsessed with validation.
My entire sense of worth seems to hang on someone else’s words.
I have this maddening urge to explain myself until the other person finally says, “I get it. I still like you. You weren’t wrong.”
Why can’t I be wrong? Why am I so attached to being right?
I’m sure my moral compass was shaped in childhood, by parents who believed that making a mistake meant you were a bad person. So to me, being a good human meant being a perfect one. Nothing less of perfection.
It’s become an obsession: to be right, always right. And when I’m not, I spiral into anxiety. Then I expect others to accept my shortcomings, because I wasn’t raised right, because I have issues, because I am broken.
And the burden falls on the ones who love me to accommodate my madness, my fears, my tears, my jolts, my frenzy, my apparent lovelessness.
It becomes a vicious cycle: “Please don’t hate me, I’m not bad”—to—“Go to hell, you’re wrong and imperfect.”
Self-preservation takes over when someone tries to push me into a corner.
I growl like a grizzly bear to scare them away, but on the inside, I just want a hug.
I want to be told I’m still loved.
I often observe others, watching how they go about their day, without any apparent worry of the world.
I don’t understand how people live with their imperfections without constantly fearing ridicule or rejection. I can be kind to strangers, compassionate to broken people, accepting of their flaws.
But in close relationships, I run a tight ship.
So tight, it’s suffocating.
And truthfully? It’s exhausting to live with me.
I’m constantly analyzing myself, putting myself on trial, playing the jury, the judge, the lawyer, the culprit, and the victim. It feels like I’m holding a fragile ship together. One wrong move, and everything sinks.
Yes, yes,I know I need help!
But here’s the question that haunts me: Does wanting to be right mean I need help?
I fear that if I start letting go, if I start accepting things as they are, I’m giving up on myself.
Accepting would mean my thoughts aren’t really changing. I’ve just muted my voice.
I fear I’d become a fake. A hypocrite. An inauthentic.
So what to do now?
Should I end relationships where I don’t let the other person breathe?
Should I only stay close to those I can accept easily?
Should I keep pushing people to be better?
Where’s the line between nagging and nurturing? Between trying and accepting?
Why does acceptance sometimes feel like enabling cruelty? And why does trying to fix things make me feel like the villain?
If I don’t sound urgent, will people even take me seriously?
How much time are we wasting hurting each other—hurting ourselves—just to be ‘right’?
How do I handle the casual disdain people seem to have for empathy and accountability? How far do I go in trying to show them a different way?
What’s the ideal distance in relationships? What’s hypocrisy, and what’s authenticity? What does it mean to “let people be” versus trying to make a relationship work?
And then I wonder: what is stopping them, and what is stopping me, from accepting?
Behind the refusal to accept is fear.
Fear born in childhood, or maybe adulthood, during those moments when you were left alone, helpless.
When the hand that was supposed to save you pushed you deeper into the swamp instead.
You felt like you’d die in those moments.
But you survived. Heroically.
At a cost.
You lost faith. In people. Maybe even in God.
Now, the only person you trust is yourself, because it was you who pulled yourself out. And even when someone offered help, they didn’t reach in time.
So now, you plan. You judge. You micromanage every outcome. To avoid vulnerability.
People might think you’re strong, wise, put-together. But really you’re just scared.
A scaredy crow who can’t handle surprises. You spin like a top, terrified of falling.
This perfection isn’t superiority. It’s inferiority, wearing a mask. It’s fear pretending to be in control.
And when you look at others, you wonder: How are they just living? Not micromanaging? Not terrified of mistakes?
You’re triggered by their ease. Their confidence. Their oblivion. You scoff at them, call them naive. But in quiet moments, you wonder: Who sleeps better? You or them?
Maybe you’re jealous. Maybe you envy how little time they spend in fear.
Your fear shows up as control. As nagging. As intensity. You become the party pooper. The energy zapper.
But there’s an opposite extreme too: The avoiders. The numb ones. Those who were never taught to handle hard emotions. So they freeze. Scoff. Numb.
They call emotional people dramatic. They label vulnerability as weakness.
But deep down, they’re as fragile as you. They just express it differently.
Addictions often live here: in food, screens, working out to look a certain way, alcohol, sex, shopping, even cleaning. Anything to escape the storm inside.
So there’s a middle path. There has to be.
One extreme says stop at the sight of trouble. The other says ignore the signs and run. But the middle path says:
Pause.
Feel your feelings. Sit with discomfort. Then choose your next move, with kindness, with strength, with clarity.
Tell yourself when difficulties are looming over your head, that you are strong enough to face it. You are loved enough to ask for support. You are mature enough to know who to ask. You are kind enough to accept failure. And wise enough to begin again.
You don’t have to feel ashamed of making mistakes and seeking help. You help others feel whole when they think they’re missing something to be happy and worthy.
I read somewhere, Not making mistakes is not perfection but growing continuously changing continuously as per the lessons is perfection.
So now to me, this is what a healthy mind looks like: A mind that can handle what life throws at it—with quiet dignity. Even if it stumbles, it rises.
It knows how to hold itself. And when it can’t, it’s confident enough to reach out. Not in desperation, but in strength.
It doesn’t dwell in shame. It doesn’t seek constant validation. It simply knows:
The space it holds on this Earth is already its own, and it doesn’t need to be earned or justified.
I hope all the broken ones find peace. I hope they’re met with warmth instead of suspicion. That their concerns are treated like real wounds. That they are supported like they never were before.
I hope they know: They matter. Without effort. Without perfection. Without asking.
Always.