Unlearning Disappearance

It didn’t erupt like a storm. There were no slammed doors or angry footsteps echoing down the stairs. No dramatic music swelling in the background. No one gasped. No one even noticed.

It came quietly—like the stillness just before dawn. A low, steady tide pulling back from the shore. The decision had been forming in the shadows for a long time, settling deep like roots stretching through soil. And when it finally arrived, it wasn’t loud. It was a soft, almost imperceptible shift—like the snap of a thread that had been pulled too tight for too long.

One day, I just stopped. I stopped holding what was never mine to carry. I let it go—not in anger, not in chaos, but in clarity. And in that moment, something inside me exhaled—truly exhaled—for the first time in years.

I didn’t storm out. I shed a skin. A role I had worn for so long, I’d started to believe it was me. The version of me who bent, who yielded, who shaped herself to fit into someone else’s comfort—she was worn out. She had done her job. And it was time to let her go.

There was no speech. No spotlight. Just the quiet, certain sound of something inside me breaking free.

And he—well, he didn’t notice right away. He had already moved out, certain I’d chase after him, beg him to come back, play the role he was used to. But I didn’t. He was too busy writing his version of the story, casting himself as the misunderstood hero, handing out blame like lines in a play. I wasn’t in it anymore. I had stopped auditioning.

I didn’t look back. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because, for the first time, I chose myself.

I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other side. No plan, no neat resolution. Just a quiet certainty that I couldn’t stay, not like that. I chose myself so my daughter would know she could too. So she’d see that when someone in a relationship isn’t treating you with respect, you don’t have to stay and suffer through it. You can walk away. You can start again.

I didn’t want to teach her that a man can do anything and a woman just has to endure it. I want her to see a different story—a truer one.

So I left. And I left myself a promise: this time, I would live for me.

I whispered it like a secret I was still learning to believe: I am enough. I deserve better.

That was the day I stopped waiting for someone else to confirm my worth. The day I chose myself—not just in the leaving, but in the deciding.

And it wasn’t easy. Because for most of my life, I’d been conditioned to believe that love is something you earn. That if you just try harder, sacrifice more, shrink yourself just right—someone will finally love you back the way you deserve.

So I had learned to bend. To mold. To shape-shift.

In relationships, I was the fixer. The giver. The one who apologized first and compromised most. I ignored red flags like they were festive decorations—told myself(and was told numerous times) I was “too sensitive” when I felt disrespected. And in the quiet of the night, I’d turn on myself before anyone else could. I was always one step ahead of the criticism, hyper-aware of every perceived flaw, trying to outrun the feeling of not being enough.

I carried that belief into everything. Into motherhood. Into friendships. Into my career.

Even when I was excelling professionally—clocking 60-hour weeks, mentoring juniors, giving presentations that made rooms go silent—I still felt like a fraud. I’d sit in meetings and second-guess my expertise. I’d proofread my emails five times before hitting send. I’d minimize my accomplishments because I couldn’t fathom that I had actually earned that respect. I thought I was just fooling everyone with some kind of cosmic sleight of hand.

And the mirror? Let’s not even go there.

I never allowed myself to feel beautiful. Compliments felt like traps. When someone told me I looked nice, I’d laugh it off. Say something self-deprecating. Anything to avoid sitting with the discomfort of being seen in a positive light. Because deep down, I didn’t believe it. Not really.

So yes, the day I walked out wasn’t the end of something. It was the beginning.

The beginning of unlearning.

Unlearning the belief that I had to earn love.

Unlearning the instinct to apologize for existing.

Unlearning the reflex to second-guess my brilliance, my beauty, my worth.

And healing—real healing—is not linear. It doesn’t come gift-wrapped with affirmations and yoga poses.

It came in trickles and waves—sometimes gushing with clarity and release, other times barely a drop, just enough to keep going.

It came in small choices—quiet, radical acts of self-respect. Saying no when I used to say yes. Resting without guilt. Dancing with abandon just because it felt good. Getting dressed for no one but myself.

It came in showing up to parties as I am—and leaving without replaying every word, every glance, every laugh. It came in looking in the mirror and, for the first time in my life, loving what I saw. Not picking myself apart. Not trying to shrink. Just…being. And letting that be enough.

And most importantly, it came in the way I now show up for my daughter.

Because this isn’t just about me anymore. She’s watching. Listening. Absorbing. And I’ll be damned if she grows up thinking she has to earn love by making herself smaller.

I want her to grow up knowing that her voice is not too loud, her feelings are not too much, and her dreams are not too big.

So I teach her the lesson I had to learn the hard way: You can choose yourself. Every single day.

And it’s not selfish—it’s sacred.

Now, when she says, “Amma, you look beautiful,” I try to believe her. I smile and say, “Thank you.” Because I want her to see a woman who accepts love instead of deflecting it. A woman who doesn’t need to hustle for her worth. A woman who chooses herself not once, but every day.

I didn’t always believe I deserved better. But I believe it now.

And the thing is—belief is a muscle. You have to work it, stretch it, nurture it. You have to protect it from all the noise that tells you you’re not enough.

And some days, that belief still falters. I still hear the old tapes in my head. But I no longer let them dictate the script.

Now, I write my own story.

And every chapter begins with the same quiet, defiant truth:

I am enough. And I choose me.