I Said What I Said (and I Meant Every Damn Word)…

Somewhere along the way, we got tricked into thinking our worth was a group project. That if we just collected enough gold stars from other people, we’d eventually get the laminated certificate that says: Congratulations, You’re Officially Enough. We sat there, like the teacher’s pet of the soul, waiting for applause, validation, a nod from someone taller than us in emotional stature.

But chasing worth from others is like chasing the last Pringle in the can. You never actually get it, and even if you do, it’s crushed and disappointing.

I didn’t just start chasing approval thirty years ago — I’ve had a lifetime membership. I was trained from the beginning that a “good” person is one who’s liked. Who’s agreeable. Who’s not too loud, too messy, too opinionated. I became fluent in the art of shape-shifting — bending, shrinking, softening — depending on who I was with, just to make sure I didn’t get kicked out of the warm glow of someone else’s approval.

And here’s the kicker — sometimes it worked. Sometimes it felt amazing. But like any drug, it wore off fast. And then you’re standing there, looking around for your next fix, realizing you’ve built your whole sense of self on a foundation that belongs to someone else.

That’s the thing about giving other people the keys to your worth — they’re not always careful with it. Sometimes they misplace it. Sometimes they use it against you. And sometimes, they just walk away with it without even noticing you’re standing there, empty-handed.

So one day, whether it’s a slow-burning realization or a nuclear-level “enough is enough” moment, you stop. You cancel the lease on your worth being stored in someone else’s warehouse. You start bringing it back home.

And that’s the arrival.

The arrival isn’t some cinematic, slow-motion scene with mood lighting and a triumphant soundtrack. It’s quieter. It’s the first time you feel the old urge to explain yourself… and you don’t. It’s realizing you like your own company more than you like performing for someone else’s. It’s catching your reflection mid-laugh — not because someone else made you feel seen, but because you did.

The arrival feels like someone finally handed you the keys to your own damn house after decades of renting from landlords who didn’t care about the plumbing. You walk through the rooms — the messy ones, the beautiful ones, the parts still under renovation — and you think, This is mine. All of it.

But here’s the thing no one tells you: arrival is not the end. It’s not like you land, hang up a “Mission Accomplished” banner, and never wobble again. There will still be days when you forget. Days when someone’s opinion stings more than it should. Days when you feel the old itch to perform.

The difference is — now you have a home base. You know where the light switch is. You can find your way back in the dark.

And after the arrival, life gets… lighter. You stop auditioning for roles you never wanted. You stop giving front-row seats to people who clap out of politeness. You laugh louder. You wear what you want. You eat the last piece of cake without apologizing. You give your time to people who see you as a person, not a project.

Here’s the thing about reclaiming your worth: it’s not just peaceful. It’s funny. It’s absurd. It’s liberating in ways that will make your younger self gasp and clutch her pearls.

Once you realize you don’t have to keep up the charade for anyone, you start doing things you never thought you’d have the nerve for. You stop “dressing for the occasion” and start dressing for your mood. Which means, yes, you might roll up to a serious meeting in sneakers and a hoodie because your worth isn’t tied to whether Karen in accounting thinks you “look professional.” And it also means you might put on a sequin dress to buy bananas, simply because you feel like it.

You stop holding your laughter hostage. The polite little chuckles? Gone. Now, when something is actually funny, you laugh like you just got personally blessed by the comedy gods — head back, no care for volume control. Bonus points if it makes someone turn around in the grocery store.

You say “no” and mean it — without the immediate compulsion to write a 14-paragraph apology explaining why. You discover the power of “no” as a full sentence and watch people’s faces like they’ve just been denied entry to a VIP party they assumed was theirs by birthright.

You stop measuring yourself in “likes” and start measuring in “did this make me happy?” The quiet thrill of posting something on social media and not caring if it gets two likes or two thousand is an Olympic-level sport in worthiness.

You give up emotional Pilates — that constant bending over backwards to make everyone comfortable — and instead stand up straight. And the world doesn’t collapse. No one dies. In fact, the people who really see you actually like you more.

You also get reckless in the best possible way. You might take up salsa dancing despite having the rhythm of a broken washing machine. You might finally tell the barista your name is Beyoncé, just to see them write it on the cup. You might turn down a date with someone who “checks all the boxes” simply because you don’t feel like it.

And here’s the sweetest part: you stop chasing closure from people who wronged you. Because you realize they can’t give you anything you don’t already own. Their apology, their explanation, their “I see your worth now” speech — irrelevant. You’ve already stamped your own approval and filed it under “Final Copy.”

Living like this is not about being arrogant. It’s about being free. It’s about knowing your worth so deeply that the nonsense just… slides off. Drama doesn’t stick. Insults don’t land. You don’t crumble because one person couldn’t see your light — you just keep shining, maybe even a little brighter, just to make them squint.

At 51, after decades of letting other people hold the remote control to my worth, I finally yanked the batteries out. I run my own show now. And spoiler: it’s a lot less exhausting, the lighting is flattering, and the catering is way better.

Because the truth is, you will never know you’re worth if you keep trying to find your worth from others. But the second you stop looking for it in their hands, you’ll find it in your own.

And once you do, you’ll wonder why you ever begged for crumbs when you were the whole damn feast.