I used to think
I had to earn love
by being small—
quiet enough,
easy enough,
never needing too much.
I've mistaken survival
for worth,
mistaken silence
for strength.
But I know now—
I was never too much.
Just too full
of a world no one else could see.
A heart built without walls,
where every feeling
becomes a flood.
They call it Borderline.
But I am not the disorder.
I am the girl beneath it—
the one who still hopes
even when everything hurts.
Yes, I fracture.
But I also mend.
And every time I do,
I come back softer—
not weaker.
Never weaker.
There is a version of me
that sings when no one's listening.
Who cries without apology,
who holds the phone
and tells the truth
even when her voice shakes.
There is a version of me
who doesn't flinch at kindness,
who doesn't second-guess love.
And maybe I'm not her
every day—
but I catch glimpses.
And each glimpse
pulls me forward.
I am not healing to become
someone else.
I am healing
to return to who I was
before the world told me
I had to be afraid
of my own heart.
This is what I know now:
I can be messy
and meaningful.
I can be uncertain
and still worthy of joy.
I can break
and still belong
in this world.
And no matter how many times
the tide takes me,
I will come back to shore.
Again.
And again.
And again.