Radiant Redemption

If there’s one voice I’ve known longer than any other, it’s the one inside my head telling me I’m not enough—or worse, that I’m too much.

Too emotional. Too intense. Too messy. Too complicated.
Not smart enough. Not lovable enough. Not worthy enough.

It’s the voice that whispers when I walk into a room:
“If they really knew who you were, they’d leave.”

It’s the echo of old wounds and twisted memories that convinced me somewhere along the way that I was a mistake—not that I made a mistake, but that I was one.

That inner critic isn’t some mysterious force. She’s familiar. She wears my face. She knows exactly where to dig in because she’s been narrating my story for years. And for a long time, I believed her. I let her decide who I could befriend, what dreams I could chase, how deeply I could love or be loved.

Even in recovery, she didn’t go away. She just changed tactics.

Instead of “You’re a screw-up,” she’d whisper, “Don’t get too comfortable. You know how this ends.”
Instead of “You’re unlovable,” she’d mutter, “You’re a burden. Keep people at arm’s length so they don’t figure that out.”
Instead of “You’re too much,” she’d say, “Shrink. Be easier to handle. Don’t cause waves.”

But here’s what I’ve learned:
That voice is not the truth.
It might be familiar, it might even sound like safety, but it’s not the voice of healing. It’s the voice of fear. And it’s rooted in shame, not reality.

The turning point for me was learning to pause and ask:
“Who told me this? Who benefited from me believing it? And is it still serving me now?”

Because most of what my inner critic says was never mine to carry in the first place. It was the product of trauma, survival mode, dysfunctional environments, and pain I never learned how to process. And now that I am learning, I’m learning to push back.

To speak to myself like someone worth fighting for.
To name the lies out loud so they lose their power.
To surround myself with people who speak truth when I forget how to.

There’s still a part of me that flinches when I’m called “too much.” But instead of shrinking, I remind myself:
Maybe I am too much—for small minds, shallow waters, and half-hearted lives.
But I’m just the right amount for this healing, messy, meaningful journey I’m on.
And so are you.

You are not a mistake.
You are not too broken to be loved.
You are not unworthy of belonging.

You are in process.
And that critic in your head? She’s loud, but she doesn’t get the final word.

💬 Call to Action:

Write down three lies your inner critic loves to repeat—and then, write a truth to counter each one. Speak that truth out loud. Daily. Until it starts to feel like your own.

Then share one of those truths in the comments or send it to a trusted friend. Let’s drown out the lies together.