I miss myself.
What does that mean?
I miss who I was when I was at my best. Even when I was at my worst, I seemed to always crawl through the messiness and get back up. Since 2022, I haven't been totally sure who I am anymore. Often, I even feel like a shell of who I once was.
But I'm still her. She's still here. That big-eyed, kind, passionate, tan, empathetic, awkward little eggroll hater.
It's been a life-long struggle working against my inner narrative and critical voice. Now I have a little nugget of my own, and I worry if I don't work through and solve my issues soon enough, I'll damage him and he might be like me.
Perhaps, there are good things about being like me.
He can be kind. He can be understanding. He can be funny, making others more comfortable. He can be creative, observant, good at making space for others. He can be cute and resilient. He has my eyes. He has my button nose. He has my grandpa Wah Ning's forehead. He is so easy to love. Perhaps, I can muster some of the love that overflows for him back to myself.
I see him, and I also see some parts of me.
