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Letting Go Before It Eats My Peace Alive

Last night shook me more than I expected. It’s strange—how something so small, something as simple as a typo, can unravel parts of me I thought I had strengthened I thought that I had toughened up. It wasn’t the mistake that hurt; it was the realization that people I believed were close to me could think so little of me over something so trivial. That sting—the disappointment, the confusion—it sat heavy in my chest.

But this morning, as I read the words: "Let that shit go before it eats your peace alive" on my Pinterest board , something inside me softened. Not everything deserves a reaction. Not everyone deserves access to the fragile parts of my heart. I can’t control how people choose to interpret me, twist a moment, or judge me based on one tiny imperfection—but I can control how much I allow it to drain me.

Holding onto the hurt from last night feels like drinking poison and expecting clarity. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I felt small. But my peace is worth more than defending myself to people who only see me when it’s convenient. My worth doesn’t shrink just because someone else’s perception of me did.

I’m learning—slowly, imperfectly—to stop giving energy to things that don’t nourish me. To protect my peace like it’s oxygen. To breathe, detach, and move the hell on. Because peace doesn’t come from proving myself over and over; it comes from realizing that some burdens were never mine to carry in the first place.

Last night left a bruise I didn’t see coming. It’s wild how one stupid typo—one tiny, meaningless mistake—could make me feel so small in front of people I thought truly saw me. It wasn’t the error that hurt; it was the way it made me question where I stand with them. How quick they were to assume, to judge, to pull away. That quiet shift in their tone hit harder than any loud argument could.

It made me feel disposable. Like all the effort, all the closeness, all the history could just evaporate because of one imperfect moment. And that’s what cut deep.

But sitting with this pain also made something clear: my heart has been too forgiving, too open, too willing to bleed for people who don’t handle me with care and I AM DONE. Last night showed me that some people only love the perfect version of me—the one who never slips, never missteps, never sends a wrong word. And that’s not love. That’s convenience.

I deserve more. I deserve people who don’t make me feel stupid for being human whose flaws and broken.

So this is me choosing to stop swallowing thoughts that choke me. This is me choosing myself. Saying it out loud: I’m hurt. I’m disappointed. I’m tired of giving the most fragile parts of me to people who don’t know how to hold them.

Letting go doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. It means I matter more.

I’m done letting moments like this drain the light out of me. I’m reclaiming my peace—raw, bruised, but still mine.

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