Author name: Esha

As I have joined the gym, I knew I needed to prepare proper meals for myself. That was the obvious next step. But somehow, as always, I kept delaying it. I kept finding small reasons to push it to later. I would tell myself I’ll do it after this, or tomorrow, or when I feel

I was born to a narcissistic mother. Not the trendy label people throw around online. I mean the clinical reality. a woman who competed with her own daughter, who felt threatened by her child’s personality, who rationed warmth as if love had to be earned. She fractured my sense of self so deeply that I

I didn’t grow up thinking something was wrong with me. I grew up thinking I was impressive. I was the quiet child. The responsible one. The girl who could read the room before anyone spoke. I knew when to lower my voice. When to agree. When to disappear. People called it maturity. No one called

For a long time, I thought understanding would save me. I read about narcissistic abuse and finally had language for what I lived through. I could explain the patterns, name the manipulation, and make sense of years that once felt confusing. I thought that would be the turning point. But it wasn’t. Because even after