I titled this chapter I am the love of my life (I sleep in the color yellow) because this is the part of the book where I begin returning to myself. After spending so much time wanting to be chosen, understood, reassured, and loved correctly by someone else, I started asking what it would look like to give some of that love back to myself. “I am the love of my life” does not mean I no longer wanted to be loved by other people. It means I no longer want my relationship with myself to depend on whether someone else stays, chooses me, understands me, or sees my worth.
I want to know myself deeply. Care for myself. Adorn myself. Speak to myself with tenderness. Pay attention to what brings me joy. Become someone I enjoy coming home to. And “I sleep in the color yellow” is what that love feels like to me. Yellow is warmth. It feels like sunlight. Like life returning. A room I can finally rest inside without feeling like I have to prepare for something to go wrong. For so long, love felt like longing. Here, it begins to feel like peace.
This chapter is about discovering that I can be a source of love in my own life. That I can comfort myself, delight myself, protect myself, and continue becoming someone I am curious to know.
I spent so much time trying to be loved.
This is the part where I begin loving myself back.
the veil.
It is a dangerous thing
not to love oneself.
Forgive me
for my states of delusion.
Like a dog
I was on all fours,
restless,
hungry,
unlike myself,
unaware that I was gnawing
on slivers of attention
and snapping at everyone
that came near me,
fearful that what little I received
would be taken away.
I have lived half my life
with a veil over my eyes.
My mind was not equipped
to notice I was numb.
Empty.
Contorting my body
in ways that were unnatural.
Desperate.
That I was seeking a love
that did not exist
outside of myself.
How do you love
when you don’t know how?
When you don’t know
what it looks like?
(For a long time, I didn’t understand how much not loving myself affected the way I loved other people. I was hungry for attention, reassurance, affection, anything that made me feel chosen. And when I received even a little of it, I held onto it tightly because I was afraid it would disappear. That is what I mean when I compare myself to a hungry dog.
It’s not meant to be cruel toward myself. It’s the closest image I have for how desperate I sometimes became. I was taking scraps and treating them like a meal. I could become protective of the smallest amount of attention because some part of me believed there would never be enough. I didn’t recognize myself in those moments.
I bent myself into versions that didn’t feel natural. I accepted things that hurt me. I chased connection when what I really needed was to come back to myself. For years, I didn’t even know how empty I felt because emptiness had become familiar. I couldn’t recognize numbness when I had been living inside it for so long.
That is what the veil means to me. I could see the world, but I couldn’t see myself clearly. And eventually I had to face that I had been searching in other people for a kind of love I had never learned how to give myself.
So when I ask, “How do you love when you don’t know how?” I am not only talking about romantic love. I am asking how anyone learns to give what they have never seen, never received, or never practiced on themselves. I think that was the beginning for me.
Learning what love looks like when I am no longer begging someone else to show me.)
I promised not to return.
I held my feet at night
so I would not return
to what was once
familiar
(There were nights when leaving was not the hardest part. Staying gone was. My body still remembered what was familiar. The routines. The closeness. The person I had reached for so many times before. Even after I knew I needed something different, there was still a part of me that wanted to turn around and go back.
I held my feet at night. I was trying to keep myself from walking back into something just because I knew the way there. I had to learn that familiar did not always mean safe. Sometimes healing was simply holding myself still long enough for the urge to return to pass.)
I do.
I forgive myself.
I forgive myself.
I forgive myself.
(For so long, I thought healing meant understanding everything I had done wrong. Why I stayed, went back, ignored myself, kept loving people who were hurting me, and why I became versions of myself I didn’t recognize. I spent so much time looking back at myself with disappointment. This poem is me rising above that.
Forgiving myself is not me pretending none of it happened. It’s me deciding I don’t have to punish myself forever for the choices I made when I was lonely, afraid, attached, confused, or simply trying to be loved. I forgive the woman who was unaware of herself. I forgive the woman who knew and still stayed. I forgive the woman who had to learn the same lesson more than once.
That is why I repeat it.
I forgive myself.
I forgive myself.
I forgive myself.
I needed to hear it more than once before I finally began to believe it.)
anew.
My tears became
a baptism
back to myself.
(I cried daily for what happened to me. For what I allowed. For the versions of myself I lost trying to be loved. I cried for the time I could not get back and for the woman I had been so hard on for surviving the only way she knew how.
Somewhere in all of that grief, I started to feel closer to myself again. That is what I mean when I call my tears a baptism. I wasn’t washing away who I had been. I was returning to her. Coming back to myself softer, more honest, and finally willing to stay.)
I heal.
Within my temple
I lit the lamps
I bathed
in oil and flowers
I returned to myself
anointed
(For so long, I looked outside of myself for something sacred. Love. Approval. Permission. Someone to tell me I was worthy of being cherished. This poem is the moment I stopped waiting. The temple is me. Lighting the lamps is me choosing to see myself clearly again. The oils and flowers are devotion, care, beauty, all the things I had so easily offered to other people. This time, I offered them to myself.
I was not waiting to be chosen anymore. I chose myself, and I treated that choice as sacred.)
becoming.
I am new
to this day
(I am new to this day is a reminder that every morning gives me another chance to meet myself differently. I don’t have to wake up and be exactly who I was yesterday. Each day gives me another opportunity to work on myself, to become more aware, to make better choices, to soften where I have become hardened, and to strengthen the parts of me that need protecting.
I am allowed to evolve.)
change.
I am attentive to my rage
lest it consume me
I have stopped trying
to make it go away
I have stopped pleasing others to disguise it
(I can listen to my anger without letting it consume me. I no longer need to hide it, dismiss it, or make others comfortable. I can notice what it is protecting, what wound or injustice it points to, and what need I have ignored.
I don’t have to be ashamed of my rage. I can feel it, name it, and choose what to do with it.
Anger is not all of me. I can be honest without being cruel, firm without being destructive, and allow my rage to guide me toward what needs to change.)
you don’t know.
I have spent a lifetime
learning to love myself
you could not show me
you did not know
(I spent years waiting for someone else to show me how to love myself. They couldn’t. They didn’t know how. And that is such an impossible task for someone who was never taught how to love themselves.
So I began learning in small ways. Listening to my needs, trusting my feelings, setting boundaries, and choosing myself without apology.
I no longer have to wait for permission to become my own loving place.)
out of reach.
My love did not go away
it expanded
into parts of myself
you could not reach
(My love did not go away.
I thought moving on meant becoming indifferent, but instead, my love expanded inward. I began giving myself the patience, care, and attention I had once given someone else. I learned to protect my peace, make room for my dreams, and care for the parts of myself I had neglected.
I didn’t lose my softness or become cold. I simply stopped believing all my love belonged outside of me.
My love did not disappear.
It returned to me.)
more of me.
I started to inhabit my body
I came alive
in ways I did not know were possible
I found more of me
everywhere I looked
(I started to inhabit my body. For so long, so much of my attention existed outside of me. I was watching, waiting, adjusting, and giving.
When I began turning that attention inward, I came alive in ways I did not know were possible. I started noticing myself again. My wants. My interests. My voice. The small things that made me feel like me.
And the more I looked inward, the more I found.)
admire.
I have always loved my lips
I trace the outline of them
Leave kisses on notes
why did it feel so sinful
to love myself
(I have always loved my lips. I trace the outline of them. I leave kisses on notes. There has always been something about them that I recognized as beautiful without needing anyone else to tell me.
And that made me wonder why loving the rest of myself ever felt so difficult. Why did self love feel like vanity? Why did choosing myself feel selfish? Why was it so easy to give tenderness away, but uncomfortable to turn that same tenderness inward?
I think parts of me always knew how to love myself. I just learned somewhere along the way that I should be careful about showing it.)
still here.
I have a favorite oil
rose and patchouli
I rub my legs with devotion
my arms in silence
to give thanks
I am still here
(I have a favorite oil, rose and patchouli. Rubbing it into my skin has become more than a routine for me. It feels like a quiet act of devotion. Learning to thank my body and stay with myself. Knowing I am not performing for anyone but showing myself I am filled with gratitude and love.)
here.
I am in service to myself
Now I remember her
in all her states of being
at every age
She needs me
I am here
(I am in service to myself now. To every age I have been. Every version that survived without knowing what came next. I remember her differently now. I stay.)
reclaiming me.
I collected all the poems
and the notes I used to write to you.
I would give them to you
when I felt most in love.
I found them
on the floor,
under the bed,
in the trash.
I am reclaiming them.
They are about me.
They were always
about me.
(I used to think the poems and notes I wrote belonged to the person I was loving. I gave them away when I felt the most open, the most loving, the most sure of what I felt.
Then I found them discarded. For a while, that hurt because it felt like my love had been discarded too.
But I see them differently now. Those words came from me. The loving, the longing, the beauty, the devotion, all of it was mine before I ever placed it in someone else’s hands.
So I am reclaiming them. They are me.)
I ask myself.
I cannot remember
the last time someone asked me
what I liked
without wanting something from the answer
So I asked myself
and I listened
I wrote it all down
as though I were studying someone
I had just fallen in love with
This list belongs to no one else
I have begun paying attention
I know what delights me,
moves me,
makes me stay a little longer
I am no longer waiting
to be discovered
I am a witness to myself
(There is something intimate about learning my own details without needing them to be useful to anyone else.
The list belongs to me.)
be.
The mirror watches me
dance
laugh
cry
naked
clothed
Free
(The mirror has seen me in ways most people never will. Dancing when no one is watching. Laughing at myself. Crying until my face changes.
Naked. Dressed. Becoming.
There was a time I looked into the mirror searching for something to correct. Now I think about everything it has witnessed. All the versions of me that have stood there.
And lately, I have been meeting my reflection without asking her to be anything.
I let her exist.
Free.)
welcomed.
I leave flowers
around my bed
So that when I return
alone
I am welcomed
(There were so many times I associated being alone with being unwanted, forgotten, or left behind. I wanted to change that feeling. I no longer want solitude to feel like rejection.
I want to come back to my own space and feel that someone thought of me. Even if that someone is me.)
I always come back.
Some days
I wake already belonging to myself
other days
I have to go looking
In the evening I return
(Some days I wake up feeling close to myself. I move through the day without questioning every feeling. I know what I need. I feel at home in my own body.
Other days, I feel farther away. I can get lost in old thoughts, old fears, old ways of looking for myself through other people. On those days, I have to go looking.
Sometimes I forget how much care I need from myself. I may wander during the day, but I am learning not to punish myself for it.
By evening, I return.
And more and more, I know how to welcome myself back.)
I know.
There are so many versions of myself
that exist in others.
Who else but myself
could truly know
me.
(There are so many versions of me living in other people. For a long time, I think I gave too much weight to those versions.
I wondered how I was remembered. How I was understood. Whether someone else’s idea of me meant something true about who I was. But no one has been here for all of it. No one has heard every thought, felt every change, or known every reason behind the choices I made.
I am the only person who has lived through every version of me. That is why knowing myself matters so much. Everyone else has a piece.
I have the whole story.)
held.
I no longer leave to be held.
I keep myself.
(For a long time, I reached outward when I wanted to feel held. I looked for comfort in another person. Reassurance. Warmth. Somewhere to put the parts of me that felt lonely. Sometimes that meant leaving myself behind. Now I am learning how to stay. I can soothe myself. Sit with myself. Give myself the tenderness I used to search for somewhere else.
Keeping myself means I no longer have to disappear into another person to feel loved.
I can be held and still remain mine.)
I keep me.
I soften to myself.
My love sustains me.
(I used to be much harder on myself. I thought growth meant correcting every flaw, pushing through every feeling, becoming better as quickly as I could.
Now I am learning to soften. To speak to myself with patience. To rest when I need to. To stop treating every difficult moment like proof that I have failed.
My love sustains me because I am no longer waiting for someone else to give me enough to feel whole. I can care for myself through disappointment, loneliness, change, and uncertainty. There is something comforting about knowing I can be a safe place for myself.
I don’t have to earn my own tenderness anymore.)
I found me.
It felt as though joy
were blooming from my chest,
as though I’d been invited
to know a secret about myself
it washed over me
like a brand new month
I rejoiced in it
(There came a point when joy started to feel unfamiliar in the best way. It wasn’t attached to anyone else. Nothing had to happen first. I wasn’t waiting for a message, attention, or some outside reason to feel good. It was simply there.
That is what I mean when I say it felt like joy was blooming from my chest. It felt like discovering something about myself I had somehow missed before. That I was capable of feeling full on my own. That there was still so much life in me. The feeling came over me quietly, like the beginning of a new month. Something in me had changed. And I let myself enjoy it. I didn’t question it or brace for it to leave.
I rejoiced in the fact that I could still surprise myself with happiness.)
take it in.
Stretch your arms upward.
Gather the sun.
Let it fill you
with love and warmth.
Let it radiate
from your eyes
and your mouth.
You are golden light.
(This poem is a reminder to come back into my body and remember that I am alive.
To stretch. To breathe. To feel warmth on my skin and let myself receive something without questioning whether I deserve it. When I say “gather the sun,” I mean take in what is good while it is here. Let warmth reach the places in me that have felt cold. Let joy show on my face. Let love move through the way I speak, the way I look at the world, and the way I carry myself.
“You are golden light” is how I remind myself that there is something bright in me that doesn’t depend on anyone else seeing it first. And when I say “you are divine,” I mean I am learning to treat my own life as something sacred.
To inhabit myself fully. To let myself shine without asking permission. You are divine. )
safe.
I sleep in the color yellow.
I thrive.
(Yellow has always felt like warmth to me. Sunlight. Life. Something opening. So when I say I sleep in the color yellow, I mean I have begun to create a life that feels warm enough for me to rest inside it.
I am no longer only trying to make it through the day. I am learning what it feels like to enjoy my own life. To wake up with something to look forward to. To feel peace without waiting for it to be interrupted.
And I think that is what thriving means to me now. It’s being here. Feeling alive. Having enough room inside my own life to grow.
I survived for a long time. Now I want to thrive.)
worthy.
Who am I if I’m never loved
the way I’m meant to be loved?
I am still someone worth becoming
I will open up to myself
challenge myself
adorn myself the way I like
I will look into my eyes
and speak to myself
gently, intimately
I will kiss my fingertips
and hold my body
I am worthy of my own adoration
I keep discovering myself
and falling in love with myself
all over again
(For so long, I wondered what it would mean if I never received the kind of love I had spent my life longing for. If no one ever saw me completely, chose me fully, or loved me in all the ways I thought I needed.
Would something always be missing?
I don’t ask myself that question the same way anymore. I am still someone worth knowing. Worth caring for. Worth becoming. There are parts of myself I haven’t even met yet. Things I haven’t tried. Ways I haven’t dressed myself, spoken for myself, challenged myself, or allowed myself to live. There is still so much of me here.
I want to know myself intimately. I want to look into my own eyes and speak with tenderness. I want to touch my own body with care. Adorn myself because I like the way it feels. Pay attention to what delights me. Keep asking myself questions and listening for the answer.
I spent so much of my life wanting to be adored. Now I understand that I am worthy of my own adoration too.
I am not finished becoming. I get to keep meeting myself.
And loving her all over again.)
Thank you
Writing has always been deeply personal for me. So much of what I share began as something I was simply trying to understand within myself. To know that those same words have reached someone else, made you feel seen, helped you name something, or simply kept you company for a moment means more to me than I can explain.
Thank you for allowing my words into your quiet places.
Thank you for reading slowly.
For feeling with me.
For seeing yourself in something that once belonged only to me.
Every time someone tells me that a poem stayed with them, I am reminded that once we share our stories, they begin to belong to other people in their own way too.
I am grateful that you have made room for mine.
-Bianca B.
