Letting the Old Me Die

There is a version of me that I can no longer carry. He drags behind me like a corpse I refuse to bury, whispering my sins into my ear, reminding me of what I have done. I have tried to outrun him, to drown him in distraction, in work, in meaningless conversations with people I don’t care for. But he is always there, waiting in the quiet, in the dark, in the spaces between heartbeats.

I have done things I cannot forgive.

Violence is a stain that does not wash out. The way I have hurt others, the way I have hurt her, is etched into the marrow of my bones. I try to tell myself that I am more than my worst moments, but those moments define me. They claw at my throat when I try to speak, they wrap around my ribs when I try to breathe. I have punished myself more than anyone else ever could, but the guilt does not make me better. It only makes me smaller.

I could have been so much more. I could be so much more. But I stand on the edge of my own life, too afraid to step forward. My career, my success, all of it hangs in front of me like fruit on a branch just out of reach, because I am unable to do the one thing required of me—to stand up and speak. Public speaking is a simple act for most, but for me, it is a doorway into judgment, into exposure. If I open my mouth, what if they see the truth? What if they see what I have been? What if they see that I am not worthy of the good things I have been given?

So I stay silent. And in that silence, I sink.

Depression is not loud. It does not arrive with warning signs or screaming. It is the slow erosion of light. It is waking up and feeling nothing. It is moving through a world that does not see you, because you do not want to be seen. It is the loneliness of your own making. I cannot connect with others, not because I do not want to, but because I am afraid. I am afraid that if they knew me, truly knew me, they would recoil. That they would turn away.

I have searched for love in others. I have waited for it to arrive, for someone to see the wreckage and say, ‘I will stay.’ But it does not come. I crave the warmth of love, the gentle reassurance of another’s breath against my skin, but I find only cold.

Because I am still waiting for someone to give me what I have never given myself.

Forgiveness. Compassion. Grace.

I have come to understand that no one can save me. No love, no success, no external force can reach inside me and heal what is broken. That is my work. And it is work. It is the hardest thing I will ever do. Because to become someone new, I have to let this version of me die.

And I am terrified of who I will be without him.

Change is brutal. It requires more than just wishing. It demands that I stand in the fire of my own mistakes and not run. It demands that I learn to sit in my own pain without numbing it, without avoiding it. It demands that I let myself grieve, not just for the harm I have caused, but for the love I have denied myself.

I need change. I need love. But not just any love. I need a love that sees me at my lowest and does not turn away. I need a love that holds me in my hurting and says, ‘Even now, you are worthy.’ I need a love that reciprocates, that does not feel like I am reaching into the void, desperate for scraps. But most of all, I need to learn how to give that love to myself.

I need deep emotional connection. I need space to be hurting and to still be loved.

So this is my promise. Not to anyone else. Not to the world. But to me.

I will not let the weight of my past destroy my future. I will not let shame keep me silent. I will not keep waiting for someone else to save me.

I will bury the corpse I have been carrying. I will let the old me die.

And in his place, I will begin again.