When I Truly Believed I Was Not Worth It

There was a time when I genuinely believed I wasn’t worth anything. Not worth love. Not worth patience. Not worth staying for. Not worth being understood. It wasn’t a dramatic moment or a single event; it was a slow, quiet unraveling that happened inside me long before anyone ever noticed. I carried the belief the way people carry old injuries — silently, protectively, almost as if I deserved to hurt.

I used to wake up with this sinking feeling in my stomach, a heaviness that whispered that no matter what I did, it wouldn’t matter. I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t impressive enough, smart enough, stable enough, lovable enough. I would stand in front of a mirror and feel like I was looking at someone who had already failed before the day even began. Every flaw felt magnified. Every insecurity felt like truth. Every mistake felt like proof that I wasn’t deserving of anything good.

It didn’t help that I had grown up swallowing my emotions, shrinking myself to avoid conflict, apologising before speaking, over-explaining my existence. Somewhere along the way, I learned to treat myself like a burden. And when people left or pulled away, I didn’t question it. I agreed with it. I thought that was what I deserved. I thought if someone truly saw me — all the mess, all the confusion, all the contradictions — they’d walk away too. So I withdrew first. I stayed small. I stayed silent. I stayed out of the way.

I didn’t realise then that I was living through the echo of old wounds. I thought it was my personality, not my pain. I thought it was truth, not trauma. Every time someone complimented me, I felt uncomfortable. Every time someone cared, I felt suspicious. Every time someone stayed, I felt confused. And deep down, I thought: if they really knew me, they wouldn’t.

There were nights when the self hatred grew louder than anything else. Nights when I replayed every mistake I’d made as if they defined my entire existence. Nights when I pushed away people who cared because I didn’t want them to see how much I struggled. Nights when I cried quietly, hoping no one would hear, because even needing support felt like too much to ask for.

And yet — somewhere inside me — there was a very small, fragile part that refused to give up. A part of me that was tired of hurting. Tired of doubting. Tired of carrying the weight of old voices that never understood me. A part of me that whispered, “Maybe this isn’t the truth. Maybe you deserve better. Maybe you’re allowed to be more than your fear.”

I’m not healed, not perfectly confident, not always believing in myself — but I am learning. Learning that worth is not earned through success or perfection. Learning that being loved isn’t something you win; it’s something you allow. Learning that my feelings don’t make me weak. Learning that the way I survived shaped me, but it doesn’t define me forever.

If you’ve ever felt like you weren’t worth it — like you were too broken, too complicated, too damaged, too exhausting — I want to tell you the thing I wish someone had told me earlier. You’re not unworthy. You’re not a burden. You’re not beyond saving. You’re someone who had to survive things you never should have faced alone. You’re someone who learned to doubt themselves because no one taught you how to trust yourself. You’re someone who is still here, still breathing, still fighting, even when it feels impossible.

And that means you are worth more than you have ever been told.

You are worth more than your past.

You are worth more than your pain.

You are worth more — simply because you exist.