I Was Fierce Once. And Then I Forgot.

Act I – The Before

I Was Fierce Once. Then I Remembered.

I didn’t realize I’d changed.
Not at first.
Not in the ways that mattered.

I still told myself the old story—
that I was independent, sharp, a little untouchable. Fierce, even.
That nothing had dulled, only matured.
That I hadn’t softened, just evolved.

But the truth is…
I had changed. Quietly. Repeatedly.
In the small ways that never announce themselves.
In the way you say yes to what you used to question.
In the way you stop looking in mirrors and start looking for exits.

And then someone came along—unexpected, steady—
and without trying, they reminded me
of who I used to be.
Of how much light I’d tucked away in the name of being easier to love.
Of the parts of me that didn’t need fixing—just remembering.

They didn’t save me.
They just stood in their own confidence long enough for me to notice the silence in mine.

And suddenly, I couldn’t unsee it.
The drift. The dulling.
The quiet trade-offs I’d made until I became a version of myself I didn’t even recognize.

I wasn’t always like this.

Act II – The Drift

I didn’t become someone else overnight. I just stopped noticing the difference.

I didn’t become someone else overnight.
It happened slowly. Subtly.
Not in grand betrayals but in small agreements to be more tolerable, more palatable, less… complicated.

You say yes when you mean maybe.
You say it’s fine when it’s not.
You become good at being good—at reading the room, at staying quiet long enough to keep the peace.

And at some point, it’s not a choice anymore.
It’s just the way you live.

You think you’re still yourself—just more mature, more grounded, more easygoing.
But somewhere along the way, you stopped asking for things.
You stopped taking up space.
You stopped trusting your own fire.

And maybe it started in a relationship. Or a job. Or a house you never meant to stay in for twenty years.
Maybe it started in a thousand places at once.

All you know now is—you miss someone.
And the someone you miss is you.

The loud one. The curious one.
The one who didn’t double-check every sentence before speaking.
The one who wanted things. Big things.
The one who laughed louder.
The one who left when it wasn’t right—
not because they were impulsive, but because they believed they deserved more.

That version of you isn’t gone.
They’ve just been waiting—quietly, patiently—until you were awake enough to notice they were missing.

Act III – The Mirror

(aka The Intervention You Didn’t Ask For)

You don’t go back.
That’s not how remembering works.
You don’t rewind to the person you were.
You reclaim the pieces that still fit and leave the rest where it belongs—behind you.

The remembering isn’t loud.
It shows up in small choices.
You answer a text slower.
You say no faster.
You start doing things just because they delight you—
not to impress, not to prove.
Because in those moments, you remember who you are.

And sometimes it hurts.
Because you realize how long you’ve gone without being seen clearly—even by yourself.

But then you meet someone.
Not always in a romantic way.
Sometimes they’re just a mirror—
a sharp, unexpected kindness,
a presence that doesn’t flinch when you show up with all your edges.

And suddenly you’re laughing louder,
moving differently,
saying things you forgot you used to say—
not because the person gave you anything,
but because they reminded you what was already there. Inside.

Maybe you give them this: a quiet thank-you for holding up the mirror,
for reminding you of what was already yours.
Not because you owe them anything,
but because recognition like that is rare.

And you were never broken.
Just hidden—
buried beneath all the ways you tried to be easier. To shrink yourself for someone else.

And now, piece by piece,
you’re coming back.

Fiercely. 💙