I See the Wound, But I Won’t Be the Cure

Lately, I’ve found it hard to be around people oozing with pick me energy.

You know the kind—where the air gets thick with performance.
Where someone’s trying so hard to be liked, seen, validated… chosen.
It’s not subtle. It’s loud, even when it’s silent.

The compliments feel a little too sweet. The stories a little too polished.
There’s a lingering need in the gaze that says, “Please tell me I matter.”

And the thing is… I know that energy.
I’ve lived it.

I used to do everything I could to be chosen.
I didn’t know how else to feel safe.
I thought if I could just impress someone enough—spiritually, emotionally, physically—they’d never leave.
That I’d finally be worthy. That I’d finally belong.

So I see the wound. I really do.
But I won’t validate the performance.
Because that’s not how healing happens.

Being around that energy now feels like being pulled into an invisible contract:
“If I shine just right, you owe me love.”

My nervous system tightens.
My intuition goes quiet.
And something inside me whispers:
Don’t engage. Stay rooted.

I don’t say this with judgment. I say it with love.
Because I’ve learned—through years of unraveling—that true healing doesn’t come from being picked.
It comes from picking yourself.
Over and over again.
Especially when no one else is clapping.

I’m not here to soothe the part of someone that’s still performing for approval.
Not because I’m cold.
But because I care deeply.

Enough to say:
You don’t need to earn your worth here. But you do need to come home to it yourself.

If you see yourself in this, I offer this not as a call-out, but as a call in.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be seen.
But there’s a big difference between being witnessed and being worshipped.

I’m no longer here to feed the hungry ghost of “Am I enough yet?”
I’m here for presence. For grounded connection. For truth.

And truthfully? We all have this wound.
Some of us just learned to soothe it differently.

So if you’re still performing, I see you.
I know it’s exhausting.
And I trust, with time, you’ll realize you never had to perform in the first place.

You were already enough.

Even when no one clapped.
Even when no one picked you.
Even now.