Now in my late forties, unfinished and unapologetic about it, after decades of looking outward for God or meaning or whatever we call it when we’re young, I began to discover that happiness carries its own small altar: one capital I, perfectly placed between the h and the n.
Not them. Not us. Not even we.
I.
For decades I treated that letter as if it were a typo. I thought real happiness came from moving it out of the way so everyone else could fit. Be the yes-man, the fixer, the emotional airbag for every crash in a fifty-mile radius. If someone needed me at 2 a.m., I answered. If they needed money I didn’t have, I found it. If they needed me to shrink so they could feel taller, I folded myself small and called it love.
And you know what I got for it? A gold medal in resentment and a PhD in burnout.
Here’s the part nobody says out loud: you can spell happiness without H, without A, without two P’s, without N, E, S, S. But take out the I and what’s left is garbage. The word literally falls apart if you’re not in it.
Self-love isn’t bubble baths and affirmations in the mirror (though those are nice). It’s the daily, unglamorous decision to stop treating your own needs like the dessert you only get if you clean everyone else’s plate first. It’s saying “no” to the friend who only calls when her life is on fire. It’s letting the family group chat go unanswered for one damn evening. It’s choosing sleep over being everyone’s midnight therapist. And yes, it’s surviving the guilt trip that follows, because people are shockingly creative when their free emotional labor supply gets cut off.
They’ll call you selfish. Let them. 🤷🏾♂️
Selfish is the scare word people use when you stop setting yourself on fire to keep them warm.
I’m not saying ghost your mom or turn your entire contact list into a VIP waitlist.
I’m saying stop confusing generosity with being a doormat in nicer shoes. Show up for people all you want…just don’t vanish from your own story to do it. Secure your own mask first, because nobody’s helped by a hero who’s unconscious.
I spent years thinking if I put myself last, the universe would notice and reward me. The universe didn’t notice. But I did…eventually. I noticed the rage parked under my ribs. I noticed how I was pissed at myself after saying yes to things that made me want to scream. I noticed I didn’t even recognize the man who kept apologizing for taking up space.
So I started small. One no at a time.
No, I’m not hosting Thanksgiving.
No, that loan isn’t happening.
No, my phone is off after nine.
Each no felt like treason. Then it felt like breathing.
And something wild happened: the people who truly loved me adjusted. The ones who didn’t… well, they showed me exactly who they were, and why boundaries were never optional in the first place.
I’m still unfinished…unapologetically so. No one handed me a diploma, just a quieter room where I can finally hear myself think. Some days the old habit slides back on like a coat I never quite gave to charity…soft at the elbows, smelling faintly of everyone else’s emergencies. I still reach for it. But I notice faster now. I hang it back up sooner. And when my hand lingers on the sleeve, I don’t curse the man who once lived in it; I just nod at him like an old friend I’ve outgrown. That mercy is new. That mercy…is also mine.
Self-love isn’t the opposite of loving others.
It’s the prerequisite.
You can’t pour from an empty cup; you just fake it until you hate everyone you’re pretending to help.
Put the I back in the middle of your happiness.
Protect it like it’s the last match in a rainstorm.
Because it is.
The world will still need you.
But it needs you whole, not hollow.
And trust me, from someone still messy in the middle of it: the view is a lot clearer when you’re not running on fumes, smiling through clenched teeth, hoping someone finally notices you’re drowning.
You’re allowed to notice first.
In fact, you’re required.
The word falls apart without its middle.
So do I.
Never again.
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