Post Category → Emotional Health

Day 9 – Growing Pains – Alessia Cara

A softly lit hallway stretches into the distance at dusk. A solitary figure walks away in quiet determination, bathed in a blend of warm gray and dusty rose tones. A soft beam of golden light cuts diagonally through the corridor from a partially open door, illuminating floating dust in the air. The atmosphere is peaceful yet reflective, symbolizing the moment of letting go. In the upper third, text reads: “Calm isn’t always peace. Sometimes it’s quiet survival.” At the bottom left corner, the signature Pandora’s Curio appears in delicate type.

The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

Dearest Diary,

There are things I’ve clearly outgrown. The obvious ones: old clothes, outdated habits, people who spoke to the smallest parts of me. But what’s harder to admit are the things I’ve outgrown that I still carry anyway. Like the need to explain myself all the time. Like the silent shame that comes with saying “no.” Like the fear that if I don’t earn love, I won’t deserve it.

Today, I found myself apologizing in a conversation I didn’t need to apologize for. The words slipped out before I could even catch them. It made me think about how long I’ve been rehearsing these habits. How early I started fine-tuning myself to make others comfortable. Even now, I shrink a little without realizing it. I adjust my tone, smile when I’m not okay, become smaller so someone else can feel big. And I hate it. Because I also love that I care. I just don’t want that care to come at the cost of myself anymore.

Some of these tendencies are deeply rooted. They were survival strategies once. According to Young et al. (2003), schema modes like the “compliant surrenderer” or the “overcontroller” develop as protective patterns—we adapt early to avoid rejection, criticism, or abandonment. But when we grow, those same strategies become heavy. We carry them even when they no longer serve us.

I used to think letting go meant completely shedding something. But maybe letting go is more like loosening a grip. Like walking with something until one day you set it down, not because you’re forced to, but because you no longer need it. That’s where I am with a lot of my coping mechanisms. I see them now. I name them. And slowly, I challenge them.

When someone told me recently that I “seemed so calm all the time,” I smiled, but a part of me winced. Calm isn’t always peace. Sometimes it’s just emotional restraint in a world that never asked how loud I could be. But that same world taught me to believe calm meant good. So I wore it like armor. And now I’m tired of being so well put together that I can’t fall apart when I need to.

I don’t want to hold it all so tightly anymore. I want to make space. For joy that doesn’t have to be earned. For anger that isn’t punished. For softness that isn’t hidden.

And I don’t want to demonize what got me here, either. I needed those patterns once. They protected me. They helped me be safe, accepted, and survive environments I didn’t know how to navigate. So I don’t aim to erase them in shame—I want to honor them by evolving beyond them. I still want to be what I needed when I was younger. And some days, I wonder if that version of me could see who I’ve become, maybe we’d both feel a little more whole. That thought carries comfort, even if I know I’m still learning. Still unlearning. There are places I may have overcorrected, habits I’ve misunderstood, moments I’ve surely messed up. But even in that, maybe growth isn’t linear. Maybe it’s layered. Looped. Forgiving.

Maybe that’s the work of growing up: not just outgrowing what we once needed, but being kind to ourselves while we learn how to live without it.

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S. If any part of this felt familiar—know you’re not broken for holding on. You’re healing, even when it doesn’t feel like it. Leave a comment or connect with me on social. I’d love to hear what you’ve outgrown, too.

Study Reference: Young, J. E., Klosko, J. S., & Weishaar, M. E. (2003). Schema therapy: A practitioner’s guide. Guilford Press.
Link to reference

Title inspired by the song “Growing Pains” by Alessia Cara. All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.

Day 8 – Cellophane – FKA Twigs

The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

Dearest Diary,

I used to think I was being kind by listening. Holding space. Nodding, asking questions, keeping my own stories small so someone else could stretch out in the spotlight. But kindness, I’m learning, is not the same as disappearing.

It hit me today, how tired I feel in conversations that revolve around other people’s chaos. How I’ve learned to laugh in the right places, offer comfort like a reflex, mirror back pain that isn’t mine. How I’ve become so fluent in absorbing that I forget to check if I’m even okay.

It’s not that I resent listening. It’s that somewhere along the way, I confused being safe with being silent. I learned to be good at reading rooms and adjusting myself accordingly, especially when I was younger. To avoid conflict. To be helpful. To earn affection. It became muscle memory: listen, understand, hold it in.

But what happens when there’s no room left inside?

There’s a kind of loneliness that grows in the presence of others. When your role is to receive but never to be received. When you are always the page and never the pen. Some people don’t even notice they’re writing their whole story on you.

Today I caught myself smiling during a conversation, nodding along, and yet I was somewhere else entirely. Not bored. Just… empty. I didn’t want to offer advice. I didn’t want to perform understanding. I just wanted someone to say, “Hey, you look tired. What’s going on with you?”

But people don’t ask questions they assume you can handle alone.

And maybe I’m guilty too. Of teaching them that I don’t need to be asked. That I’m fine in my quiet.

I want to unlearn that.

I want softness to go both ways. To be allowed mess. To be held.

Not just heard, but known.

I read recently that emotional over-functioning is common among people who learned early on to avoid rocking the boat. Those of us who were praised for being mature beyond our years often carry the unspoken burden of holding things together — for our families, our friends, our partners. But it’s a cost that builds slowly. A kind of self-neglect disguised as compassion.

There’s a psychological concept called “compassion fatigue.” It’s often used to describe caretakers and trauma workers, but I wonder if it applies more broadly to those of us who are always ‘on call’ emotionally. We forget to distinguish between helping and self-erasing. Between support and self-silencing.

The truth is, I’m not made of glass. But some days, I feel transparent — like people can see their own reflection in me but never quite see me.

Maybe today, I just needed to write it down. To remind myself I exist, even when no one is asking.

And maybe one day, when someone tells me a story that’s heavy, I’ll have the courage to say, “Can we pause for a moment? I’m carrying a few things too.” Maybe one day I’ll stop rehearsing empathy and start practicing it inward. Not as a performance. But as a promise.

For now, it begins here. With this letter.

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S.
If you’ve ever felt invisible in your kindness, this letter’s for you. You deserve room to be seen too. If this resonates, share your story or simply leave a 📝 to let me know you’re listening.