Displaced

A quiet loss of self

I lost myself six months ago.

There was no clear start date.
But there was a distinct end date.

The end came the moment I realized I had been seeing myself through someone else’s lens, and mistaking that view for truth. I didn’t know it at the time.

“What did you put down during that season?” I was asked.

I didn’t know the answer right away. Then it landed.

Myself.

I had poured into someone else’s heart while my own sat displaced and untended.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud.
It was a quiet, slow leak.

I don’t even think I knew there was a hole. Maybe it started as something pin-sized. Small enough to ignore. Small enough to keep going. Over time, it widened. By the time I noticed, the loss had already happened.

I was pouring love outward instead of inward.
Measuring my worth in the eyes of someone else.
Exploring my value through reflection instead of truth.

And somewhere along the way, I mistook effort for connection, and self-abandonment for love.