The heaven I chased since childhood like a pup would endlessly chase its own tail now trails far behind.
Homesick for maple, for pucks and sticks tossed behind by boys from the neighborhood on a water breaks left outside at the cul-de-sac.
We played ball, too, when we were young like children often do.
I still hear the bounce, the swoosh, and the soggy shoes because even when it poured we played and played like children often do.
Hope is a terrible thing that pierces through my soul; almost like that cold gush of water right after a run under the sun, with stomach emptied from everything but joy. Pure, young joy naive enough to believe it may be for good.
There sits a bitter taste in my throat, my tongue that knows not to mention how I often toss and turn thinking how deflated it is here;
How squirrels don’t mount trees; How trees don’t look as green; How everybody and everything isn’t quite as happy. I have not known dearth like that I have come to know it here.
I had been hungry for almost a decade. For years I have not dined properly, only on crumbs and left-overs of childhood memories.
For years I have been far from home, and now, before I take humble steps towards it again, I am afraid. I am afraid the rug might be pulled out from under me.
Wouldn’t that be a wretched thing? To foolishly believe I could have it all happen again only for it to really happen in dreams.
There’s something alarming about hearing the same words from different people over different seasons of your life. “Dali, you’re too good.” Every person I’ve ever loved has said this to me, and for the longest time, I thought it was just another version of “it’s not you, it’s me”—that white lie meant to soften the impact of leaving. But when the same phrase keeps appearing, when it becomes a pattern that follows you from relationship to relationship, you start to wonder if there’s something you’ve missed.
I used to dismiss it, convince myself it was coincidence. But recently, those words found their way back into my consciousness after you said something that cut straight through to the heart of it all: “It’s almost like you have a core belief that it’s too good to be true for you. That you don’t deserve something this good. So you shoot yourself in the foot before you even start.”
“It’s almost like you have a core belief that it’s too good to be true for you. That you don’t deserve something this good. So you shoot yourself in the foot before you even start.”
In that moment, everything shifted. I could almost see the contraption of my own self-destruction so clearly that it shook my very core. In the same way people told me I was “too good” for them—I had been telling myself that you were too good for me. What a brilliant, twisted self-fulfilling prophecy.
The Stories We Inherit
We don’t come into this world believing we’re unworthy of love. That’s something we learn, something that gets programmed into us through countless small moments and messages that torpedo us into a belief we shouldn’t have in the first place. It may be true that the culture we experience teaches us that love is conditional, that it must be earned, that real connection is somehow scarce—reserved for the chosen few who fit certain criteria of worthiness.
I think about the stories we consume, the narratives that shape our understanding of what love should look like. We’re stuffed with this idea that real love exists in movies and books, that it’s something that happens to other people, the protagonists who finally choose themselves and follow their hearts toward some beautiful, meaningful ending. But here we are, living in the space between scenes, where there’s no soundtrack swelling to tell us we’re making the right choice, no dialogue promising that everything will work out if we just have courage.
When someone says we’re “too good,” they’re not really talking about us. They’re projecting their own relationship with unworthiness, their own inability to receive love without suspicion. But here’s what I’ve come to understand: we do the same thing to ourselves. We take that external rejection and turn it inward, making it a core belief about what we deserve.
The Safety of ‘Almost’
There’s an unpleasant, subtle fear that comes with realizing you might actually deserve something beautiful. It’s easier, in some ways, to live with longing than to live with having. Longing is familiar—it’s safe because it keeps love at a distance where it can’t disappoint us. But having? Having requires us to be comfortable with the idea that we’re worthy of care without conditions, love without transaction.
I’ve spent years waiting for connections like this one, dreaming of the version of love that sees you completely and chooses to stay. But when it finally arrived—imperfect, complicated, real—I found myself looking for exits, creating distance where there could be intimacy. Not because the love wasn’t good enough, but because I had been conditioned to believe it couldn’t possibly be meant for me.
This is how we cripple our own capacity for joy. We create drama where there could be calm. We choose familiar patterns of emotional scarcity over the unfamiliar space of abundance. We become so accustomed to bread crumbs that a feast feels like a setup for ultimate disappointment and heartache.
“Your nervous system will always choose a familiar hell over unfamiliar heaven. Heal, so you can choose differently.”
The reality isn’t that love is impossible—it is that we’ve been programmed to believe it’s impossible for us specifically. That we’re somehow exempt from the basic human experience of being seen, known, and chosen without having to earn it first.
But recognizing the pattern is the first step toward breaking it. When I caught myself in that moment of projection—seeing you as “too good” for me just as others had seen me as “too good” for them—everything suddenly started to make sense. I realized that this wasn’t personal pathology but collective conditioning. We’ve all been taught to protect our own hearts, to reject the possibility that we might deserve tenderness without having to prove ourselves worthy of it first.
The work, then, becomes about unlearning these unhealthy narratives. It’s about interrogating that voice that convinces us we’re “too much” or “too little.” It requires what I can only call radical self-acceptance—the act of believing we deserve care not because we’ve earned it, but simply because we exist.
Choosing Love as Resistance
Love isn’t a Netflix series with a neat finale. It is messier, more uncertain, more real. Love asks us to show up imperfectly, to risk disappointment, to choose connection over the safety of isolation. Love is an act of resistance against every force that has taught us we’re not worthy of it.
Love is an act of resistance against every force that has taught us we’re not worthy of it.
Sometimes I think about how different things might be if we could just accept love when it arrives—not the perfect love we’ve been conditioned to expect, but the human love that’s available to us right here, right now. What if we could trust that we don’t need to be “too good” or “good enough” but exactly as we are, with all our uncertainties and fears and hopes?
The question isn’t whether we deserve love. The question is whether we have the courage to accept it when it shows up, whether we can resist the urge to sabotage what we’ve been waiting for simply because it feels too good to be true.
Maybe the real revolution is in believing that it’s not too good to be true—it’s just good enough to be real. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what we deserve.
There’s something subtle and understated that happens when we say yes too often. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s a quiet fading away of our own needs, our own boundaries, and even our own voice. It doesn’t happen overnight. Instead, it seeps in slowly, coated in gestures of kindness, duty, or responsibility. We say yes because we want to be helpful. Because we want to avoid conflict. Because we want to be seen, to feel needed. But here’s the truth: every time we say yes to something that drains us, we’re actually saying no to ourselves—and sometimes without even realizing it.
The Quiet Cost of People-Pleasing
People-pleasing runs deeper than just wanting to get along. It’s a pattern of quietly leaving yourself behind. We grow up learning that our worth comes from how much we give, how much we sacrifice, how small we can make our own needs. Saying no feels risky—like we might lose love or approval. So we say yes, again and again, even when our energy is depleted.
Over time, these yeses we hand out to keep the peace chip away at our energy, time, and sense of self. So much so that we become tired, resentful, and disconnected from what really matters to us. Yet within that challenge lies the antidote—the courage to show up for ourselves with kindness and honesty.
Saying ‘No’ as an Act of Self-Love
Saying no is not about being unkind or selfish. It’s about honoring your worth and protecting your well-being. When you say no, you are creating a boundary that keeps your energy safe from being consumed by bottomless demands.
Saying no doesn’t close doors. It encourages space. Space to breathe, to heal, and to focus on what truly feeds your soul. It’s a choice to live intentionally, aligned with your values instead of being pulled in every direction and stretching yourself too thin.
When you learn to say no without guilt or fear, you reclaim your power. You learn that self-love sometimes looks like a gentle, yet firm refusal that honors who you are and what you need. In doing so, you create space for healing, for your own growth, and for your general well-being.
Saying ‘Yes’ to Yourself
When you say no to others, you’re actually saying yes to your own peace, your important priorities, and your limited time. It’s choosing to live with intention, rather than through reaction.
You stop attending to everyone else’s needs and instead begin to design a pace that works for you. One that respects your limits, celebrates your desires, and protects your right to pause, rest, and recharge.
Slowly but surely, you’ll come to learn that in those moments of saying yes to yourself, you begin to peel back the nuanced layers of obligation and expectation. You begin to reconnect with yourself again—the person who matters most in your own story.
The Bottom Line
If you’re feeling burdened beneath the heavy weight of always giving like a bottomless well, know this: you have permission to pause. To take a step back. To say no. Saying no is really deciding to show up for yourself similar to how you previously showed up for everybody else.
The bottom line? No is kind. When you protect your time, you create space for a life that feels real, whole, and fully yours. That’s where you start to grow.
Should you ask me where I would go if I could. I would say, Capilano. My head has been suspended there since I was there last. My memories, too—the ones they tell me to forget and move on from.
I bet the river still whispers my name there. Or perhaps weeps for my bare feet running across the rainforest and my laughter rippling through it seamlessly.
In Capilano, I tasted a brand of dopamine they don’t sell at pharmacies. Called childhood. I was a child then with knuckles white, hanging onto the railings as the bridge rocked from right to left and from left to right…
In Capilano, I was young, naive, and happy.
If you need me, I’ll be down at Capilano. Where the trees are that olive green I can’t seem to forget. Even if I wanted to. And sometimes, I really do want to.
Dali 