The diary of almost everything

People are strange little universes, aren’t they?
Everyone’s carrying something. Some seem to coast through life, breezing past traffic lights and emotional potholes. Others, you wonder how they’re still standing.

Nature, nurture, the eternal question. What did I come pre-installed with, and what did I quietly pick up along the way? Honestly, I’m still figuring that out. But let’s save that chapter for another day.

I was the youngest of five. Quiet. Shy. A chronic overthinker with a PhD in people-pleasing and a master’s in worst-case-scenario planning. I was the toddler who cried at drop-off, calmed down, then cried again when my mum peeked through the classroom window. Bless her heart. Teachers must’ve loved that.

I was the girl who stared at the ceiling during presentations because looking people in the eye felt like walking a tightrope over lava. I always needed a gentle push. Socially, academically, I just needed someone to help me take the first step.

And while my parents were supportive, I still carried this gnawing sense of not being enough, especially when stacked up next to family members who seemed to be born with brilliance stitched into their DNA. Though now, I know their shine came with shadows too.

At twelve, a school counselor suggested I “work with my hands.” Which is great advice… if you’re building furniture. Less so if you’re trying to build self-worth.

To this day, the word assessment gives me a rash. Competency profiles feel like personality X-rays, only taken mid-sneeze. I know I’m capable. But there’s always that voice asking: “What if they find out I’m a fraud?”
(It’s exhausting. I wouldn’t recommend it.)

Somewhere along the line, I began overcompensating, climbing ladders, collecting titles, proving I could. Becoming the kind of woman who now writes blog posts in her favorite café with a perfect latte and a tiny smirk of pride. Look at me go.

But even now, I wonder: Am I doing all this for me? Or am I still chasing some invisible nod of approval?

Thankfully, I got help. Real help. The kind that doesn’t tell you to “just think positive,” but instead sits with you in the emotional compost heap and helps you sort the useful bits from the rot.

I learned that not everything I feel is fact. That my inner child doesn’t always need the mic. That growth doesn’t mean becoming someone else, it means becoming more myself.

So here I am. Latte in hand. Writing about everything I used to be ashamed of. And somehow, feeling freer than ever.

We all carry things no one sees.
The trick is remembering that carrying doesn’t have to mean hiding.

And sometimes, just sometimes, it’s okay to put the bag down and say:
“I’ve come a long way. And honestly? I’m proud of me.”

– Sophie Quinn