I Am Still Me, Even in the Dark

 



The past few days have been heavy. Not in a dramatic way, not in a way that needs fixing, but in that quiet, pressing way that sits in your chest and follows you around. Emotionally heavy. Soul heavy.


I’ve realized that a lot of this weight comes from identity. From the version of myself I’ve learned to perform so others feel comfortable. The version that reassures, uplifts, carries, listens, absorbs. And I’m tired. Because somewhere along the way, I started carrying emotions that weren’t even mine. I absorbed people’s moods, their expectations, their needs, and slowly lost my grounding. I ended up stuck in a slump that didn’t belong to me, yet lived inside me anyway.


This phase I’m in feels dark, yes, but it also feels necessary. Like a deep clearing. A shedding. A releasing of emotional residue that’s been blocking me from myself. I’m not afraid of it anymore. I can see now that this heaviness is part of my healing, not a detour from it.


What’s been painful is noticing how people respond when I’m not showing up the way I used to. When I’m quieter. When I pull back. When I’m not endlessly warm and inquisitive and sweet. People get uncomfortable. Some even say, “This isn’t Gugu.”


But here’s the truth:

The Gugu who is sad is still Gugu.

The Gugu who is angry is still Gugu.

The Gugu who pulls back, who goes quiet, who needs space, who doesn’t smile on demand — she is still Gugu.


Every emotion I experience tells my story. Every season belongs to me.


We understand this when it comes to nature. We accept summer and autumn, winter and spring. We don’t expect the trees to bloom all year. So why is it that when I enter my winter, when I sit in my gloom, it suddenly becomes unacceptable?


I am done pretending that being human means being happy all the time. I am done performing joy when my soul is asking for rest. I refuse to abandon parts of myself just to be palatable.


What hurts most is the double standard. I’ve been expected to show up for others in their darkest moments. To hold space. To stay present. To be patient. Yet when I retreat to understand my own pain, I’m labeled selfish. Cold. Cruel. Self-absorbed.


That’s when it finally clicked: I deserve better.


I deserve people who don’t disappear when I’m quiet.

I deserve people who don’t take my introspection personally.

I deserve people who can sit with me in silence without trying to fix me or reshape me.


When I pull back, it’s not out of malice. It’s not rejection. It’s how I process. It’s how I listen to myself. It’s how I make sense of what’s happening inside me so I don’t bleed it onto others.


I want to feel safe.

I want to be vulnerable without being misunderstood.

I want connection that doesn’t require constant performance.


Not a therapist. Just people. People who can hold my hand through every version of me. People who understand that softness doesn’t disappear just because it’s quiet.


And I’m finally okay with this truth:

If someone only loves me when I’m glowing, they are not my people.

If someone needs me to be 100% all the time, they will lose me.


I am not a people pleaser. I am a whole person. And I will gladly let go of anyone who can’t sit with all my seasons.


Because I am still me.

Even here.

Especially here.

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