There’s a quote that gets under my skin every time I read it: “We all eat lies when our hearts are hungry.”
God, isn’t that the truth?
Loneliness doesn’t always show up as silence or solitude. Sometimes, it looks like staying in a toxic relationship because the idea of being alone feels worse. Or saying “yes” when everything in your gut screams “run.” It can mean clinging to someone—or something—that doesn’t feel good, just to avoid the ache of emptiness.
Been There, Done That—Too Many Times
In my younger days, I settled more times than I care to count. I hated being alone, probably because I grew up feeling that way. So I filled the void with the wrong people—people who lied, manipulated, or outright stole from me. I’ve had two failed marriages: one to an alcoholic and the other to a narcissist. I used to be a people pleaser, shrinking myself to fit into someone else’s comfort zone. I doubted who I was, constantly editing myself to be more likable, more accommodating, more… invisible.
It never worked. Not once. And I paid the price every time—emotionally, spiritually, and sometimes financially just to get them out of my life.
But here’s what’s beautiful about getting older: you stop tolerating your own bullsh*t. I’ve learned to enjoy the comfort of my own company. Being alone? It’s not so bad. Sure, there are moments when I wish someone was there—but you know what feels even better? Not having to perform or apologize for needing rest. Not bending myself in half just to keep the peace.
Waiting for a good person to fit into your life, instead of forcing one to fill a hole, beats the hell out of picking the wrong one. Trust me.
The Habitual Lie: “I’m Fine”
Another lie I used to believe? That I always had to be “fine.”
You know the drill. Someone asks how you are, and you smile and say, “Oh, I’m fine. Just tired. Just busy. You know, the usual.” But underneath it all, we’re anything but fine. We’re overwhelmed. We’re aching. We’re pushing through pain, exhaustion, or emotional fog—sometimes all three at once.
I became the person others leaned on. The strong one. And somewhere in the chaos of caregiving and chronic illness, I convinced myself that I didn’t have permission to fall apart. That if I started opening up, everything—and everyone—might come undone.
But here’s what I’ve learned: your struggles don’t make you a burden. Your honesty won’t break the people who love you. And you’re allowed to be held, too.
What True Nourishment Looks Like
These days, I’m far more intentional with how I nourish myself. Here’s how I do it—not perfectly, but gently:
💜 Physical Nourishment:
Whole foods. Lean proteins. Avocados and berries. Eating slowly, with presence. Not every meal is a healing ritual, but I try to make it count when I can.
💜 Emotional Nourishment:
I go outside. I write. I listen to music that makes me feel something. I let myself cry when I need to. And I’ve learned to acknowledge my feelings without judgment, which was harder than it sounds.
💜 Relational Nourishment:
I keep a tight circle. The people who get me, who don’t make me explain myself—I treasure them. I let myself be loved, even when it’s awkward or unfamiliar.
💜 Spiritual Nourishment:
I pray. I reflect. I try to live in alignment with what matters to me. Some days, that means being still. Others, it means showing up—even in my softness.
💜 Truth and Kindness:
I ask myself what I really need. And I try to answer honestly, without shame. No more settling. No more starving my spirit just to keep the peace.
A Final Word, From Me to You
If your heart is hungry right now—if you’re tempted to settle for crumbs—I get it. But please, take it from someone who’s chosen wrong more times than she can count: don’t feed yourself lies. Don’t quiet your needs just to avoid the echo of loneliness.
You are not too much. You are not a burden. And you sure as hell aren’t meant to live on emotional scraps.
You deserve a feast of truth, tenderness, and connection. Even if it takes time to find it. 💜
