Love me back, little self
I don’t ghost myself, not anymore, not this girl (Part 2)
Chapter 13
You’ve probably met her too. The version of you who ghosts herself the moment things get hard. She’s charming at parties. Sharp in meetings. Soft where it’s expected.
But when the lights go out or the volume turns up inside her chest, she’s gone. She leaves the room before anyone else can. Disappears before you can ask her to stay. (I say “her” because I’m talking about my messy, undone version. Feel free to swap in “him,” “them,” or whatever your beautifully complicated self answers to.)
It’s not indifference. It’s trauma dressed up as hyper-independence.
We were raised to survive, not to stay. Taught to edit ourselves into shinier, smaller versions that won’t get hurt. If you believed love was conditional, that approval was earned through performance, that your feelings were a liability, then of course abandoning yourself felt like safety.
But eventually, self-abandonment gets too heavy. Too quiet. Too lonely to keep pretending it’s strength.
You’ll hear me talk a lot about “showing up.” We spend so much of our lives doing it for others. But what about for ourselves, especially when the act feels unbearable?
Here’s the thing: your nervous system is wired for safety first, meaning second. Before it can tell your story, it needs to know you’re not in danger. So when shame floods your chest, when you make a mistake, when you feel too visible, your brain doesn’t whisper, “Here’s your chance to practice self-compassion.”
It screams: “Get out! Danger ahead!”
Picture this: You’re watching a midnight horror movie. The shadow behind the curtain. The hand lifting the knife. The key turning in the ignition. Every instinct shouts: “Don’t open that f***ing door!”
That’s your amygdala doing its job. Biology trying to protect you with outdated scripts.
But what if you could press pause on that scream? What if, instead of bolting, you learned to step forward with a quieter voice that says, “It’s okay. I’m here for you.”
This is the work. Slowly, gradually: rewiring your brain to meet the tremble with tenderness instead of terror.
Psychologist Deb Dana explains that your vagus nerve carries a record of lived experience. It remembers unsafe rooms. Untrustworthy relationships. Feelings that got punished. It forms patterns to get you out fast the next time danger is sensed. But feelings are not danger. Triggers are not prophecies.
And the only way to heal the leaving, is to practice the staying.
The power of soft rituals
Returning to your truest self doesn’t mean fixing what was never broken. It doesn’t mean shoving your emotions into a tidy 5-step framework. It means sitting with what you feel without scanning the room for the exit. Whispering, “I’m staying,” to the parts of you that have only ever known silence.
It means writing a different ending than the one your body was trained for.
That’s where rituals come in. Sacred vows. Micro-practices. Anchors that say: “This moment is safe.”
Here are four I return to again and again:
Candle of sanctuary Light a candle before you write, work, or sit in stillness. The soft flame signals calm. Choose a scent you love, close your eyes, breathe in for three counts. Strike the match with intention. Watch the flame settle. Then begin.
Heart grounding Place one or both hands over your heart when thoughts race. Touch soothes the amygdala via the vagus nerve. Breathe in for 4 counts, out for 6. On each exhale, say silently: “I’m present.”
“I stayed” writing anchor Close every journal entry/writing session, even the messy ones, with the words “I stayed.” It reframes presence as achievement. When you’re done writing, breathe, draw a line, write the phrase. That act alone is enough.
Screen-free sip Drink your morning matcha or coffee without reaching for a screen. Teach your brain to receive care before doing. Savor five slow sips. Let them remind you that your worth isn’t earned. It already exists.
Each of these rituals is a quiet vow: “I will not run.”
Practice one daily for a week. Notice how your body begins to expect kindness instead of crisis. Healing doesn’t erase the past, it writes the ending your mind was never taught to imagine.
You won’t wake up “fully healed.” But you will learn how to stay present instead of vanishing the moment you need yourself most.
You ghost me, I ghost you back
You know the pattern too well. You feel the surge. The desire to begin again. To show up. To speak the truth. To finally become who you are when no one’s asking you to shrink.
And then? You vanish. Quietly. Gracefully, even.
You ghost the page. You disappear mid-conversation. You promise yourself “next week.” But next week starts to look a lot like the last one, full of “almosts” and “not yets”.
That’s your nervous system doing its job, mistaking visibility for danger. Because to show up publicly when you’ve been punished privately is no small thing. You train yourself to exit before you’re exposed. To leave before anyone else gets the chance. To stay mysterious, half-ready, a little blurry, because if no one sees you fully, no one can fully reject you.
But you know what else is happening? You also disappear from joy. From your art. From the connection you ache for. From the version of you quietly waiting on the other side of consistency.
And the most unexpected part? Ghosting often begins not in failure, but in momentum. Right when the draft is getting good. Right after the vulnerable post. Right before the pitch you almost sent.
The ghosting whispers:
“This is getting too close.”
“You’re not ready.”
“This will hurt if it fails.”
And so you look back, just like Orpheus.
The guy who didn’t trust Eurydice was still behind him. Who doubted himself one step from salvation. Who lost her the moment he turned around.
Because when we’re close to the thing we want, the inner noise gets louder. It screams!
Orpheus had already done the impossible. He had convinced the gods. Survived the underworld. All he had to do was keep walking. But the silence behind him got too loud. The fear in his heart screamed stronger than the truth in his gut. So he turned. And lost everything.
That’s what ghosting ourselves really looks like. It’s fear, cloaked as logic.
It’s protection, wearing the mask of self-preservation.
Psychologists call it approach-avoidance conflict, when you both crave something and fear what it will demand of you. The closer you get, the more your mind whispers:
Visibility is dangerous.
Vulnerability is unsafe.
Success might cost too much.
So your brain pulls the emergency brake. You flinch. You turn. You vanish from your own story, before it can become real.
You shut out. You over-edit. You pick a fight with yourself and call it standards or perfectionism. You log off “for clarity” but really, you’re chasing emotional anesthesia.
No one sees it. But you do.
Your dreams do.
The version of you waiting on the other side of consistency does.
✦ RITUAL: Return before you exit
Next time you feel the urge to ghost yourself:
Pause.
Don’t fix the sentence. Don’t abandon the idea. Don’t rearrange your life. Instead, place a hand on your chest and say:
“I’m allowed to stay. Even here. Even now.”
Give your fear a new job: not the reason you run, but the reason you keep showing up.
Because visibility without safety isn’t vulnerability, it’s self-harm.
But when your nervous system learns that your truth is safe with you, the urge to vanish softens.
The currency of conditional love
This isn’t your fault. Self-love was never taught.
Not really.
We were taught to self-correct, not self-compassion. To improve, not to witness. We were told to be kind to others. To love, strategically. To earn worth. But no one taught us what to do on the days we don’t achieve. On the days we feel loud, lazy, unlovable, “too much.”
So we internalized the rules:
Productivity = worth.
Praise = safety.
Visibility = risk.
And when we couldn’t meet those rules? We withheld our own love.
How many times have you said:
“I’ll like myself when I get that job.”
“I’ll rest when I’ve earned it.”
“I’ll show up when I’m better.”
That’s not growth. That’s self-erasure in prettier language.
Be the parent you wish you had
You’re not fighting laziness. You’re fighting association. If love once meant instability or punishment, of course it feels unsafe now.
"Avoidance is the brain’s attempt to protect us from feeling an emotion we once didn’t have the support to process." — Hilary Hendel, Psychotherapist
You weren’t born hating yourself. You were taught to. And every time you flinch from your own reflection, what you’re really saying is: “Please don’t be disappointed in me again.”
How do you stay with yourself when you feel least lovable? When your inner critic drowns out your voice? When visibility feels like exposure, and rest feels like guilt?
You start by noticing the drift. The scroll. The spiral. The urge to vanish.
And whispering: “Not this time. You’re safe here now.”
Psychologists call this attachment wounding. When those who were meant to mirror your worth mirrored your “too-muchness” instead. So you shape-shifted. You performed. You pleased. And forgot how to stay. That’s where reparenting begins: in presence.
Write the awkward paragraph no one may read. Take the unflattering selfie you almost deleted. Answer the email that makes your chest tighten. Rest, even when there’s more to do.
Each time you do, you tell your nervous system: “I’m not abandoning you anymore.”
That’s the rewire. That’s the repair. That’s the real self-love.
✦ RITUAL: Write to the one who still waits
When you feel like disappearing…pause. Write a note to your younger self, the one who still believes love must be earned.
Say:
“I see you.
I know how hard you’ve tried.
You don’t have to prove anything today.
You’re safe now.
I’m not going anywhere.”
It doesn’t have to be poetic. Just true. You’re not writing for perfection. You’re writing for presence.
✦ RITUAL: The Permission slip
Each morning, write yourself one line:
“Today, I give myself permission to…”
Then complete the sentence:
“…rest without earning it.”
“…show up without editing.”
“…exist without explaining.”
“…not be useful today.”
Stick it on your mirror. Your laptop. Your lock screen.
Let your nervous system see it enough times to believe it.
I’m not going to lie to you, some days, staying with yourself will feel like a whisper. Others, like a roar. But both count. Both heal. Both are love.
You don’t owe the world a shinier, more “put-together” version of you. You just owe yourself the loyalty to stay, even when staying feels unfamiliar.
Sit with your reflection.
Be present.
And this time?
Don’t look back.
Not like Orpheus.
¶If you’re wondering what’s next, this space is growing and evolving, just like you.
We still honor the fall, but also the parts of ourselves we’ve learned to mute.
The ways we disappear. And how we find our way back. What began as a place to reframe failure is now deepening into a home to self-abandonment. A toolkit for emotional fluency. A quiet invitation to stay, speak, and show up as the unfiltered, undone version of you.
Before you go, I’d love to know:
→ What’s keeping your voice low right now?
→ What’s making it hard to show up?
Drop a comment, if it feels right. Or DM me
Stay soft. Stay messy. Stay brave.
Gloriously yours,
Eleni
¶I’ve decided that some chapters deserve a poem instead of a conclusion. Sometimes mine. Sometimes ones I’ve carried for years. This time, it’s Love After Love by Derek Walcott. I first read it at a time when I didn’t know how to come home to myself. And still, every time I return to it, something quiet inside exhales.
This is a poem about remembering. About greeting yourself after years of ghosting your own heart. About offering love, not to the version of you that finally “got it right”, but to the one who stayed.
Let this be your reminder: You don’t need to earn the feast. Just come home.
AFTER LOVE
by Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
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The line about 'trauma dressed up as hyper-independence' hit me like a gentle punch to the chest. I've been calling my disappearing act 'self-reliance' for years, not realizing I was just protecting myself from feeling too much. Thank you for naming what I couldn't, Eleni.
So good, ER!!