What am I pretending not to feel?
That question catches me off guard, because for so long, I’ve been busy pretending. Busy pushing feelings away, shoving them into the darkest corners of my heart, pretending they don’t exist. Sometimes I do this so well I even fool myself.
But today, I want to be honest. I want to sit with those hidden feelings and name them aloud, because I know that pretending only weighs me down. I’m ready to stop hiding from the truth inside me, the vulnerable, messy, beautiful truth.
I’m pretending not to feel the ache of loneliness that has visited me so many nights. The kind of loneliness that comes from carrying the weight of motherhood alone, juggling work, bills, dreams, and a heart that aches for companionship and understanding. I put on a brave face for my son, for my family, for the world, but beneath it all, there have been moments I wanted to curl into a ball and cry for hours.
I’m pretending not to feel the fear. The fear that love might never come back to me the way I dreamed it would. The fear that after being broken by the father of my son, by the man I thought I could trust, by disappointments big and small, I won’t find the courage to open my heart again. Sometimes, that fear makes me freeze. It makes me want to build walls so high even I can’t climb over them. I want to be ready for love again, but a part of me wonders if it’s still meant for me. I’m scared that my past, my scars, my history will make me unlovable, or that being a single mother from a humble background is a permanent barrier.
I’m pretending not to feel the grief of the “maybe” love, the love I gave that was never fully returned. The love I held onto because I believed in him, trusted him, even when he was inconsistent, even when I felt I had to beg for his attention. That grief is heavy, and sometimes I don’t want to face it because it feels like admitting failure. But I know grief is part of healing. It’s a bridge from what was to what will be.
I’m pretending not to feel the exhaustion. The kind of deep fatigue that settles in after years of fighting, of trying to balance a million things: motherhood, work, dreams, emotional survival. I want to admit that sometimes I am tired. So tired I forget how to dream. But I also know that resting is not giving up. Resting is allowing myself to breathe, to heal, to prepare for the next step.
I’m pretending not to feel the spark of hope that flickers beneath all this pain. The hope that one day, I will love again without fear. That I will open my heart wide and receive love freely and fully, without the need to protect or shield myself. That the love I give and receive will be consistent, tender, and true. That I will build a life not just surviving, but thriving, rich in joy, in peace, in fulfillment.
I’m pretending not to feel the pride I have in myself, the pride in how far I’ve come despite everything. I am proud of the woman who wakes up every day, shows up for her son, and keeps moving forward even when the path is steep and uncertain. I’m proud of the woman who pursues her dreams fiercely, who creates with passion, who refuses to settle for less than she deserves. I’m proud of the woman who loves herself enough to say, “No more pretending.”
I’m pretending not to feel the gratitude that quietly fills my heart when I pause and look around. Gratitude for the roof over my head, the job that pays my bills, the friends who stand by me, the moments of laughter with my son, whose smile lights up my world. Gratitude for the lessons learned, the strength gained, the love given and received even imperfectly. Gratitude for the journey itself, with all its twists and turns.
I’m pretending not to feel the tenderness I have for my inner child, the part of me that was hurt, scared, and longing for love and security. That little girl who needed to be seen, heard, and held close. I want to say to her, “I see you. I hear you. You are safe now. You are loved beyond measure.” I’m learning to hold her with kindness and compassion, to nurture her wounds and celebrate her resilience.
I’m pretending not to feel the excitement that bubbles up when I imagine my future, the home I will create, the love I will nurture, the legacy I will leave for my son. I imagine mornings filled with sunlight streaming through windows, the scent of fresh coffee, and the sound of laughter echoing through the rooms. I imagine walking confidently in my purpose, surrounded by people who uplift and cherish me. I imagine a life where I am free to shine in all my fullness.
I’m pretending not to feel the sacredness of my own journey that every hardship, every heartbreak, every moment of doubt has shaped me into the woman I am today. A woman who is learning that love is not about perfection, but about showing up with an open heart, with courage and grace. A woman who is learning that it’s okay to be scared, and it’s even more okay to keep loving anyway.
So today, I stop pretending.
I allow myself to feel everything: the fear, the grief, the hope, the pride, the gratitude, the love.
I promise to hold myself gently, to give myself space to heal and grow.
I promise to listen to my heart, even when it trembles.
I promise to trust that love is still in my cards, that my story is still unfolding with beauty and wonder.
I promise to open my arms wide, ready to receive all the good that is coming my way.
And to the me who has survived so much, who has carried so much I say: You are worthy. You are enough. You are deeply loved.
With all my heart,
Me
