There’s a version of you that people trust.
She shows up on time.
She says the right thing.
She doesn’t make other people uncomfortable.
She gets things done.
That version of you gets rewarded
with promotions, and praise.
People learn they can count on her.
What they don’t ask is what it takes to keep her in place.
What gets edited out.
What you swallow so the room stays smooth.
You learn early that control means comfort.
If you manage yourself well enough, you can avoid certain kinds of loss.
Or at least delay them.
So you build a life around structure and precision.
You make decisions that feel safe.
You become someone who is hard to disrupt.
Until something does.
And when it does, it rarely starts with a big thing.
It starts small.
A moment you can’t quite explain.
A reaction that feels out of proportion.
A memory that doesn’t stay where you left it.
You tell yourself you’re tired.
You move on.
But something has shifted.
And the version of you that used to work
doesn’t have a response for it.
That’s what no one prepares you for.
Not the success.
Not the control.
The moment when what kept you safe
stops working.
Kitt