For the longest time, I believed that if something bad happened to me, it was because I let it happen. Maybe I wasn’t strong enough. Maybe I didn’t fight hard enough. Maybe I should have seen it coming. These “maybes” became the background noise of my life, and no matter how much I tried to silence them, they always found a way back.
I remember the day everything changed. It wasn’t a big moment—no dramatic realization, no life-altering conversation. I was just sitting across from someone who gently asked me, “If this had happened to someone else, would you blame them?”
That one question shook me. Because, of course, I wouldn’t. I would tell them they didn’t deserve it. That it wasn’t their fault. That they were just a child, or just a person trying to survive. And yet, I had never extended that same kindness to myself.
That’s when I knew—I had spent years punishing myself for something that was never mine to carry. It wasn’t my fault. It was never my fault. And even though I’m still learning how to fully believe that, at least now, I’ve stopped believing the lie that it was.