The Quiet Ways You Abandon Yourself — Without Realizing It

Returning to herself at the edge of the ocean, where her voice first learned to rise.

How disappearing becomes a habit, and how one moment can bring you back to yourself.

There are moments that split your life in two—
the person you were before,
and the person you refuse to be again.

For me, it happened the day a man looked me in the eyes
and said he owned me.

I didn’t get angry.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t shrink.

I laughed.

Not a polite laugh.
Not a nervous laugh.
A laugh so hard it bent me forward, stole my breath,
and left tears running down my face.

I wasn’t laughing at him.
I was laughing at myself—
at the woman I had become without noticing,
at the blinders I had built around my own fire,
at the way I had twisted myself into someone
he could believe he owned.

That laugh shook something loose in me.
It rattled the restraints I had placed on myself.
It reminded me of who I was
before I disappeared inside my own life.

And when the laughter emptied out,
the anger hit—hot, sharp, undeniable.

My whole body flushed,
and that’s when I felt it:
the burning knot in my throat.

Not fear.
Not sadness.
Not anxiety.

It was my voice.
The one I had buried so deep I forgot it existed.
The one that had been trying to claw its way back for years.

And then the thought came,
clear as a blade:

I refuse to believe this is it for me.
I want more.
I deserve more.
And damn it, I will get more.

It was the first honest thing I had felt in years.
Because for a long time,
I wasn’t living—
I was disappearing.

Where Self‑Abandonment Begins

People think self‑abandonment starts in adulthood,
but it doesn’t.

It starts in childhood,
in the smallest moments.

For me, it started with being “too much.”

Too curious.
Too hungry for learning.
Too different from my siblings.

I wanted books, telescopes, ballet shoes, theater classes—
anything that fed my mind.

But with four kids and limited money,
my wants were treated as indulgences.
Luxuries.
Unnecessary.

So I learned to shrink my desires.
To silence my wants.
To make myself easy.

That’s the first quiet abandonment—
the one you don’t even feel happening.

The Inherited Silence

I grew up in a home where silence was respect.
Where children didn’t express themselves.
Where obedience was survival.

I didn’t realize I learned silence from my mother—
not because she wanted me small,
but because she had been made small herself.

Her hunger for connection only surfaced after my father died,
and by then,
silence had already become my first language.

I carried that silence into adulthood.
Into friendships.
Into love.
Into marriage.

I thought staying quiet was power.
I thought agreeing meant peace.
I thought not reacting meant control.

But silence wasn’t protecting me—
it was erasing me.

What Self‑Abandonment Looked Like in My Marriage

It didn’t happen all at once.
It was slow, quiet, almost polite.

It looked like a body carrying more than it could hold.
Blood pressure rising like a warning I refused to hear.
Nights that never let me rest.
Dreams that turned into terrors.
Work becoming the safest place I knew.

It looked like losing the things that once made me feel alive—
the books, the writing, the walks,
the small rituals that reminded me I was a woman
with a pulse and a hunger and a mind of her own.

It looked like shrinking.
Softening into silence.
Floating above my own life.

I told myself I was keeping the peace.
But really, I was fading.

And the people who loved me could see it long before I could.
My best friend once cried and told me
she thought I would die if I didn’t leave.
And she wasn’t wrong.

The Moment I Came Back to Myself

After that laugh—
after the heat,
after the throat,
after the anger—
something in me snapped back into place.

I drove for miles, letting the road hold what I couldn't.
I took a deep breath and screamed,
and cried until my body finally empty itself out.

When the shaking stopped,
When my breath settled,
When my mind felt clearer that it had in years—
I made a plan.

The first step was simple:
Say no.
Speak up.
Stop abandoning myself.

It sounds small.
It wasn’t.

It was the beginning of my return.

And somewhere in that heat rising through my chest,
I felt her—Elowen—standing at the edge of my breath.
Not intervening. Just witnessing.
Whispering the truth I had forgotten:
“You were never meant to disappear.”

If this moment feels familiar—the quiet vanishing, the slow return—
you may want to read Shadow Work: The Softness in My Storm .

The Version of Me That Died — and the One Who Returned

I burned the woman who stayed quiet to survive.
The one who swallowed her rage.
The one who bent herself into shapes that didn’t belong to her.
The one who believed a loveless marriage was better than failing.

She died the moment I realized silence wasn’t protection—
it was permission.

And the woman who returned?

She’s new.
She’s wiser.
She’s discerning.
She’s boundaried.

She’s still an observer,
still hungry for learning,
still a lover of reading and writing—
but she no longer carries what isn’t hers.

She doesn’t engage with people who drain her.
Not out of fear.
Not out of compliance.
But because they don’t matter.

Her fire is still there—
not wild and uncontrolled,
but steady,
intentional,
ready when needed.

She knows what she deserves.
She knows what she wants.
She knows she will never disappear inside her own life again.

If You’re Reading This and Recognizing Yourself

Maybe you’ve been disappearing quietly.
Maybe you’ve been shrinking to keep the peace.
Maybe you’ve been silencing yourself to survive.

If so, I hope you hear this:

You are allowed to come back to yourself.
You are allowed to want more.
You are allowed to stop abandoning yourself—
even if you’ve done it for years.

Your fire isn’t gone.
It’s waiting for you to stop dimming it.

What part of you is asking to return?

@notesformysoulmate

This work is protected—not to gatekeep, but to honor the fire, the return, and the woman who refused to disappear.
© 2025 Notesformysoulmate. All rights reserved.

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