Tag: Identity

Falling in Pieces

When it started falling,
It left a trail of where I’d been.

No one said a word.
Maybe it was nothing.

But day after day,
It kept falling.

Too much.
Too fast.

There was no denying it,
Only proof.

Something was wrong.
I must be sick.

But I was young.
I was strong.
I felt fine.

It felt like a curse from above.
Telling me I did something wrong.
Telling me I deserved it.
Telling me I didn’t belong.

My hair isn’t mine anymore.
It belongs to someone else.

I started to fear
the touch of another person.

I miss the feeling
of fingers combing through my hair,
followed by a kiss,
and the comfort I used to know.

I miss the wind
How it once felt free.

I miss the water
How it once brought me calm.

I miss when my hair
didn’t feel like a lie.

I hate what’s become of me.
I hate this cage.

I hate the way I shrink inside.
Like I take up too much space.
Like I’m too much and never enough
All at the same time.

I grow envious
of the girl with someone
who twirls her hair.

Who tells her it’s beautiful,
how soft it feels,
how it’s part of her,
and why he loves her.

Who tucks her hair
behind her ear,
and whispers a secret
only meant for her.

All I can do
is watch from a distance,
and dream
of what it might feel like
to be her.

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Getting Bullied Wearing Wigs

Growing up with alopecia felt like a battle I could never escape.

It was something I tried so desperately to hide — but everyone could tell.

The wigs I wore as a child looked artificial. There was no denying I had one on.

At school, kids teased me. They’d mock the way my hair parted — “Why does your hair grow in a circle like that? Are you wearing a wig?”

All I could manage was a soft “no,” shaking my head.

Because the truth was unbearable.

I couldn’t accept my own diagnosis, let alone let others know.

They’d think I was gross.

They wouldn’t want to be my friend.

They’d hate me.

So, I told myself: My best chance at belonging is if no one ever finds out.

I just wanted to be normal.

I remember one time, a soccer ball was deliberately kicked at my head — an attempt to knock my wig out of place and “prove” their suspicions.

When it happened, I calmly walked to my gym teacher and asked to go to the bathroom. I didn’t look him in the eye — I was too embarrassed. But he knew. He let me go.

I rushed into the stall and fixed my hairline as quickly as I could. Then I walked back into the gym like nothing happened. I didn’t face anyone. I didn’t say a word.

I just kept pretending I was normal. That my hair was real. That I belonged.

There was another time — a cruel game made up at school. The goal was to expose whether the latest rumor about someone was true.

For me, the rumor was that I wore a wig.

The game was this: one person pulled another’s hair until they yelled “ouch!” — the idea being if you didn’t feel it, it must not be real.

I had no choice. I played along. I screamed “ouch!” at what I guessed was the right moment, even though I didn’t feel a thing.

But I knew the truth.

I hadn’t fooled them.

The giggles after the soccer ball, the whispers in the hallway — they knew.

Still, I kept showing up. I kept going to events, hanging out with friends, attending school, doing everything I could to prove that I was “just like everyone else.”

I denied the teasing, denied the questions, prayed someone would change the subject when it came up.

Because if they found out, I would be a freak.

And I just wanted to be accepted. Understood. Liked.

What It Took to Finally Tell Someone

It wasn’t until years later, through therapy, that I started confronting the pain I had pushed down for so long.

Therapy forced me to speak about things I had buried — and in doing so, I started using my voice again.

I became accountable for my own healing.

And healing meant speaking up.

Sometimes that meant having hard conversations with the very people who hurt me.

I found that writing things down helped. There was something therapeutic about putting pen to paper. It gave me clarity — and courage.

When I had to say those words out loud, I read from the page. It kept me grounded. It helped me get through it without freezing up, softening the truth, or losing my train of thought.

Reading from a letter meant I didn’t have to make eye contact. I didn’t have to read their expressions. I just had to get through it — my truth, uninterrupted.

Some people had no words in response but appreciated the honesty.

Others were thankful to understand me better, and respectfully asked for time to process.

That was enough.

Because once I said it — I could breathe again.

And little by little, the things that once triggered me… stopped happening.

And if they did happen again?

I had the right to speak up.

I could say gently, “Hey — that actually hurts me. Can you not do that?”

That’s what healing looks like.

That’s what reclaiming your power feels like.

Learning to Speak Up

Over time, I started saying how I felt more often. I started saying “no” when something didn’t feel right.

I spoke up when I disagreed, voiced my opinions, even chatted with strangers.

And eventually, I found myself sharing about my alopecia — for the first time — with someone new.

It was a hairdresser. I knew they’d figure it out anyway. But instead of hiding, I chose honesty.

What followed blew me away.

They shared stories of other clients with alopecia. They told me about their journeys, what worked for them, how they coped.

I offered my own tips — advice I wish I had known sooner.

And I left the salon inspired. Energized. I imagined another girl hearing those same tips I’d just shared. I imagined her feeling a little more hopeful.

And that’s when it hit me:

My pain, shared honestly, could actually help someone else heal too.

Why I’m Writing This

I still struggle with words.

I still stumble when I speak, still feel guilt for expressing myself.

But this blog has become my safe space.

My outlet.

My voice.

If you’ve read this far — thank you. Truly.

You’ve given me the gift of being heard.

For the recovering hearts,

Jenna

If this story resonates with you or someone you know, I’d love to hear from you. 💌 Drop a comment, share your story, or send a message — let’s create a space where we feel seen. 🫶🏻

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What Healing Actually Looks Like

It feels like starting completely over—rebuilding every part of who you are.

The hard truth? You’re changing yourself… for yourself.

And in that process, a darker voice creeps in:

I guess there’s a lot wrong with me.

Why am I so broken?

Why do I have to change so much?

Why does the world make it so hard to be who I am?

But what you have to remember is: you’re not changing because you’re broken.

You’re changing because you deserve better.

You’re healing toward the life you were meant to live.

And with that change comes strength—power, resilience, clarity.

Healing isn’t glamorous. It’s not polished or picture-perfect.

It’s raw. Uncomfortable. Messy.

You’ll feel the pull of old thought patterns trying to reel you back in.

Your inner safety blanket will whisper, “Come back. It’s safer here.”

It wants to protect you—like it always has.

It’s like trying to push your hand through a membrane that stretches but won’t break.

You push harder, and it wraps around you—until you do something more.

Push with truth. Push with purpose.

At first, it feels wrong. Unnatural.

Like you’re becoming someone who isn’t you.

But you are—you’re becoming someone you’ve never been allowed to be.

And when you finally break through that first thick layer, you realize: there’s another one waiting.

Not quite as thick, not quite as loud—but still there.

Each layer teaches you something.

Each one asks for a different kind of strength.

I’m still breaking through membranes of my own.

And I don’t know if there’s an end—

If I’ll ever get to the place where I’m fully free.

Maybe none of us ever do.

Maybe we just keep shedding.

Layer after layer, we become.

For the healing hearts,

— Jenna

If you’re in the middle of your own becoming, breaking through your own layers — I see you. 💭

This path can feel lonely, but it doesn’t have to be.

If this post spoke to something in you, I’d be honoured if you shared your thoughts in the comments 💬 or sent me a message 📩. Your story matters too — and you never know who it might comfort.

You can also subscribe if you’d like to walk this journey together 🧡.

No noise, no pressure. Just honest words when they’re ready.

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Losing Your Identity in Relationships

Being Someone’s Shadow

It always felt natural for me to step aside and let others take the spotlight. I felt safer behind someone — letting them make the decisions and speak for me.

I liked observing. Watching. Reflecting. I studied how people acted, responded, gestured, and spoke. I believed that one day, if I learned well enough, I could mimic those actions and finally build strong, lasting relationships.

But just because you study something, doesn’t mean you can replicate it.

And when I tried to — it didn’t feel right. It felt like bad acting in front of an audience I was desperate to impress. All I wanted was to run off stage, close the curtain, and find my quiet, safe place.

When You Become a Shadow

The danger of living in someone else’s shadow is that you slowly begin to disappear.

Your identity starts to fade.

The more you silence your voice, the harder it becomes to hear it at all. Eventually, you’re invisible — to others, and worst of all, to yourself.

Toxic Environments

You can move through life quietly, blending in or hiding behind someone else — and sometimes, that works when your environment is calm. But the moment you step into a toxic space, that habit becomes dangerous.

How can you tell you’re in a toxic environment?

Here are some of the red flags:

  • Jealousy — They get angry or suspicious about your other relationships.
  • Control — They micromanage where you go, who you’re with, and when you’ll be back.
  • Possession – They make you feel like you should belong only to them, slowly pulling you away from others.
  • Criticism — They constantly find fault and second-guess your decisions.
  • Isolation — They push friends and family away and get upset when you make plans.
  • Manipulation — They influence or control you in order to meet their own personal gains.
  • Bullying — They label you, mock you, or treat you like an outcast.

I started to speak less. I second-guessed everything. I became afraid of saying the wrong thing.

I lost confidence.

I lost friendships.

I lost my voice.

I was afraid to make plans. Afraid to stay out too long. Afraid to be noticed.

Eventually, the anxious behavior became noticeable — and people stopped inviting me altogether.

When the anxiety didn’t go away, the labels started: weird, abnormal, never able to relax.

And over time, I believed them.

Maybe I am weird.

Maybe I am abnormal.

Maybe I’ll never be able to relax.

When I did speak, I was told I was wrong.

It started to feel like nothing I said ever came out right.

Eventually, I stopped trying to speak — unless absolutely necessary.

That’s how it happens.

That’s how you begin to lose yourself.

And you start to think:

Maybe I can’t do this on my own.

The Collapse

Eventually, the cracks became too deep to hide.

My confidence collapsed.

My mind grew hazy.

I stuttered.

I panicked.

I avoided everyone.

I hadn’t had a close friend in over 10 years.

I longed for connection — someone who could see me. But the desperation made everything harder. Friendships became pressure. Every attempt felt like too much.

And failure after failure slowly unraveled me.

I couldn’t function.

I went mute unless absolutely necessary.

My body and mind felt like an empty shell — like a DVD player with no disc. Unplayable. Gone.

Even basic requests exhausted me.

I pushed everyone away — including my own family at times.

Eventually, I reached out for help. I was prescribed anxiety and depression medication and encouraged to start therapy right away.

The Path to Recovery

Recovery hasn’t been quick or easy.

It’s been a long road of self-discovery, mental rewiring, and learning how to draw healthy boundaries. I’ve been learning to recognize unethical behavior — and more importantly, to stand up to it.

I still take anxiety and depression medication, and was recently diagnosed with ADHD.

That diagnosis helped everything make more sense. The medication I take now improves focus, calms the buzzing in my brain, and helps me complete tasks.

My memory is sharper. My mind is steadier.

And I’ve realized something crucial:

The parts of me that are fast-moving, detail-loving, and high-energy aren’t broken.

They’re just me.

Even with medication, I still bounce around the house and multitask like it’s my superpower — and that’s okay. I’m learning to embrace it, not erase it.

Still Healing

I’m still on this journey — day by day, moment by moment.

Books have been a key part of my recovery. If you’re on your own path of healing, here are some that have helped me:

📚 BOUNDARIES: Where You End, And I Begin — Anne Katherine, M.A.

📚 The Men’s Guide To Women — John & Julie Gottman, PhD

📚 From Panic to Power — Lucinda Bassett

📚 The Grief Recovery Handbook — John W. James & Russell Friedman (just getting started)

Thank you for reading.

If you’re somewhere in this story too — please know you’re not alone.

🩵

For the healing hearts,

Jenna

💬 If you’re navigating something similar, I’d love to hear from you. Let’s create space for each other — feel free to leave a comment or message me on Instagram/Twitter/Threads

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Hair Isn’t Just Hair: Living with Alopecia, Navigating ADHD, and Finding My Identity

Alopecia is a disease—an autoimmune condition where the immune system mistakenly attacks hair follicles, treating them as a threat. There are three main types:

  • Alopecia Areata – Patchy baldness on the scalp or other parts of the body
  • Alopecia Totalis – Total baldness of the scalp
  • Alopecia Universalis – Total hair loss across the entire body

I have Alopecia Areata.

It started when I was just three years old — one small bald patch. My parents took me to the doctor, and the advice was simply to wait and see. Thankfully, my hair grew back. Everyone forgot about it… including me.

Eventually, I went on to have thick, beautiful hair — so thick my mom could only twist an elastic twice for a ponytail.

Losing My Hair, Losing My Identity

Then something changed. My grandpa passed away when I was around eight, and it was the first time I truly experienced grief. Shortly after, I started losing hair again — only this time, it was much more noticeable.

Another doctor visit followed. This time, I received a diagnosis: Alopecia. The doctor pointed out “exclamation hairs”—thin at the base, thicker at the tip. They’re a telltale sign that hair loss is progressing.

There’s a gut-wrenching feeling when you step into the shower and watch chunks of hair fall out. Some days are better. Others, worse.

I kept asking: Why me? No one else in my family had this. I was angry. Was this a test? A punishment?

I imagined life as a lottery. Some win health, beauty, and fortune. Others, like me, get dealt invisible pain and visible difference.

I never wanted to complain to anyone else. Instead, I just wished I could pretend I was like everyone else.

Hiding became my shield. However, the wind terrified me most—what if it blew just right and exposed my secret to the world?

Sometimes I’d trace the bald patches with my fingers, as if the shapes could explain why they existed. Strange circles. Mirrored patterns. Like brain scans. Or inkblot tests used to decode your mind.

Eventually, I gave up asking doctors. The treatments failed. Hope drifted further away until it disappeared completely. I surrendered.

But surrender didn’t bring peace. Instead, it felt like paralysis. I had accepted a version of myself I never wanted to be. I was no longer fighting for answers—I was simply surviving without them.

Still, those cards I was dealt led me here. They forced me to find strength I didn’t know existed. I learned what it means to crawl upward from rock bottom.

What Alopecia Took Away From Me

Alopecia took away pieces of my femininity. The intimacy of someone running their fingers through my hair. The simple, sensual feeling of wind in my hair, water rinsing over my scalp. All of those moments were taken from me.

Sometimes, I long for those cinematic gestures. The ones where someone tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Or gently pulls it in a passionate moment. Unless there’s a cure, I may never know what that feels like.

Having someone touch my wig is something I deeply avoid. It’s not what I want them to feel.

Above all, I miss freedom. The freedom of no limitations and no fear. That’s the hardest part.

What It Feels Like to Wear a Wig

Wearing a wig feels like putting on a tight, itchy net. Even the finest lace itches. I try not to think about whose hair it once was. Instead, I pretend it’s mine.

Most days, it feels stifling—too tight, too hot. Sometimes the glue doesn’t hold. Or the style I want isn’t possible. It can feel like a cage I can’t escape.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wanted to rip it off and throw it across the room in frustration.

But I know I can’t. I know I have to wear it—because it’s the only thing that helps me feel okay in this world.

The Strength I Needed to Live With Alopecia

Denial was my biggest coping strategy. I told myself the wig was my real hair. I told others the same. As a result, I denied myself space, voice, boundaries—even feelings.

It takes radical strength to carry this every day and pretend everything’s fine. You endure silently, without ever expressing the chaos inside.

Over time, I’ve changed. I’ve rebuilt. The girl I was is almost unrecognizable. Looking at old photos, I see the fear in my eyes. The tension in my smile.

Discovering I Also Have ADHD

Therapy helped me uncover more of myself. I wasn’t just living with alopecia—I was also living with undiagnosed ADHD.

There were signs. I would forget what I was saying mid-sentence. I lost things constantly. Focusing became nearly impossible. As a result, I blamed myself and felt defective—like I was broken.

What ADHD Feels Like for Me

Then I found others with ADHD online. I laughed at their reels, watching the humor unfold—and in those moments, I saw pieces of myself reflected back.

For the first time, I realized: maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was simply different. That discovery changed everything.

What I’ve Learned About Being Neurodivergent

Being neurodivergent doesn’t mean you’re less intelligent. It means your brain processes things differently. Some of us learn visually. Others need movement. Neurodivergence works much the same way.

Now, when my brain blanks or I freeze, I have tools. I understand what’s happening—and I know I’m not alone anymore.

The Latest Treatment for Alopecia: Litfulo

There’s no cure yet. However, in 2023, Pfizer released Litfulo, the first FDA-approved treatment for Alopecia Areata. It’s a JAK inhibitor, designed to regulate immune response.

While it’s promising, Litfulo carries serious side effects:

  • Lowered immune function
  • Risk of serious infections
  • Blood clots
  • Elevated liver enzymes
  • Potential long-term cancer risks

After reviewing these risks with my doctor, I’ve chosen to wait. For now, it’s not the right path for me.

This is my personal choice—not medical advice. Please consult your doctor for your own situation.

In the past, I tried creams and injections. They only brought temporary results. I still remember my mom gently applying numbing cream before those appointments. Her love softened the pain.

She was an incredible mother. I’m endlessly grateful for everything she did.

Until there’s a safe cure, we live with hair loss together.

With love,

Jenna

🔗 Learn more about Litfulo on Pfizer’s site

✨ Are you navigating alopecia or ADHD too? Let’s talk about it—drop a comment below or share this post with someone who needs support. We’re in this together.

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What It Felt Like to Be Misunderstood with ADHD

Before Diagnosis

The worst part was not knowing I had ADHD — and hating myself for feeling broken while everyone else seemed fine.

I couldn’t understand why most interactions felt foggy. Why I struggled to remember simple tasks or conversations I just had. It felt like a handicap of the mind.

You feel compassion for those who live with visible disabilities, and yet you can’t imagine living like that. But when your disability is invisible — and your body is “healthy,” your genetics “good,” your appearance “normal” — the failure feels like a personal defect. A disappointment. Someone you wish you weren’t.

Every day was exhausting. Every day I struggled. Every day was more proof that I was inadequate and incapable, while everyone around me seemed to be handed the missing pieces they needed to feel whole — confidence, competence, connection.

Knowing that my brain worked differently filled me with dread every time I had to speak to someone.

“They’re going to see how empty I am. How broken I am.”

When nearly every interaction makes you feel foolish, you start avoiding them. The conversations get fewer. The people get more distant. And then the thoughts kick in:

“Everyone hates me.”

“No one likes me.”

“I’m weird. I’m broken.”

So the next conversation becomes high-stakes. You tell yourself this one has to go well. But the nerves kick in. Maybe I mix up facts. Maybe I stutter. Maybe I forget what I was saying halfway through the sentence.

And once again, I “fail.”

Each interaction became confirmation that I was defective — and that people were right to keep their distance. My confidence shattered. My mental health deteriorated. I began to fear speaking at all. Social anxiety took over. I isolated myself.

One of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life was to keep walking into spaces where I felt humiliated — workplaces, social circles, family gatherings — knowing I would likely screw up again. But I kept going. I kept trying. And I kept being hurt.

I was bullied. I was mocked for being “weird,” “awkward,” for “never relaxing.”

People would joke:

“Why don’t you open up?”

“She’s like a cardboard cutout.”

I knew exposure therapy was supposed to help, but in a toxic environment, it only deepened the fear. The anxiety. The damage. Still, I kept showing up.

My family knew what I was going through and told me I had incredible inner strength. That even walking into those rooms was bravery.

Wearing a wig while doing it? Another kind of bravery altogether.

Wigs are… complicated. You get bad ones, okay ones, and maybe a decent one. I’ve yet to find one that looks real. They’re uncomfortable, itchy, and frustrating.

(But that’s a whole separate blog post.)

The worst part of all of it? Suppression. Bottling up emotions became a survival tactic. I had to stay on guard constantly — hide the ADHD, hide the fear, hide everything. Over time, I wasn’t just hiding the “defective” parts. I was hiding me.

And sometimes, those suppressed emotions would start to bubble up — and I’d be terrified to let them out.

What if I lose control? What if I do something I can’t take back? What if I push everyone away and end up alone forever?

So I kept the bottle sealed. I only let out enough to catch my breath… but never enough to heal.

The Vicious Cycle

It’s a vicious cycle. One that’s incredibly hard to break.

The people you surround yourself with can either help you climb out of it — or drag you deeper in.

(In another post, I’ll share stories of the people who played both roles.)

But the truth is something I’ve heard time and time again:

No one can save you but you.

And the moment you decide to change your life — for your good — everything begins to shift.

After Diagnosis

ADHD feels like you’re being pulled in ten directions at once.

Your brain is buzzing constantly. Everything feels urgent. Everything needs to be done now — all at the same time.

So you bounce from one task to another without finishing anything. You interrupt one activity to start a new one. You forget the first thing while trying to remember the third. And because you’re so afraid of forgetting something else, you just keep starting and abandoning.

It’s exhausting. No wonder we feel confused and foggy all the time.

This isn’t laziness. It’s not a character flaw. It’s neurology.

And knowing that? Understanding that my brain just works differently?

It changed everything.

It gave me permission to stop beating myself up. It gave me hope.

It gave me back me.

My brain is not broken. And neither is yours.

We are not defective. We are not failures.

We are healing.

Thank you for reading.

For the healing hearts.

Love,

Jenna

✨ If this post hit close to home, please share it with someone who might need to hear it too.

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