I Am Not a Fantasy. I Am Flesh, Breath, and Truth

For too long, I let myself be seen through someone else’s lens—

polished, edited, idealized.

I became a mirror, reflecting back the version of me they most wanted to see.

Not because I was fake, but because I thought that to be loved, I had to be imagined, not fully known.

But there is a violence in being made into a fantasy.

Not one of aggression, but of erasure.

Because fantasies don’t have needs.

They don’t get angry, or tired, or unsure.

They don’t cry at night for reasons they can’t name.

They don’t bleed.

They don’t ask for more.

And so I learned how to smile through discomfort.

To nod when I wanted to scream.

To stay silent so no one would be disappointed by my fullness.

I wore admiration like a costume—

shiny, flattering, and suffocating.

I was praised for being composed, mysterious, so easy to love.

But inside, I was shrinking.

And love that asks you to shrink is not love—it’s projection.

The Cost of Being Imagined

There is a unique kind of loneliness that comes from being idealized.

Because the moment you are no longer convenient, agreeable, or perfect—you become a disappointment.

Not because you changed,

but because you never belonged to their fantasy in the first place.

Being idealized is not the same as being seen.

And I wanted to be seen.

I wanted to be chosen not for my silence, but for my honesty.

Not for my stillness, but for the fire in me.

Not for my potential, but for my reality.

The Reclamation: Flesh, Breath, and Truth

Now, I return to myself.

To this body—marked by time, emotion, and experience.

To this voice—shaky, sometimes, but real.

To this truth—that I am not here to be perfect or pretty or painless.

I am here to be whole.

I am not a fantasy.

I am flesh—soft and strong, tender and scarred.

I am breath—changing, cyclical, alive.

I am truth—even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s hard to hold.

There is nothing imaginary about me.

I am not here to soothe someone else’s insecurities by making myself smaller.

I am not a blank canvas. I am not a dream.

I am a living, breathing contradiction—

and I refuse to be simplified.

The Kind of Love I Deserve

The love I seek now is not the kind that idolizes me.

It’s the kind that sits with me in the raw, the unfiltered.

That doesn’t look away when I’m messy.

That doesn’t flinch when I take up space.

I want the kind of love that meets me—not the version in someone’s mind,

but the one that stands before them,

unapologetic, unedited, human.

Because only when we shed the fantasy

can we step into something real.

And I am done being imagined.

I am ready to be met.

For much of my life, I was reduced to someone else's idea of who I should be.

Not by force, but by subtle expectations.

Smiles that lasted too long. Compliments that sounded like worship.

Love that was offered, but only if I stayed quiet, pleasing, and light.

They loved the idea of me.

Not the full, complicated, beautiful reality of who I am.

I became fluent in being easy to hold.

I laughed when I was uncomfortable.

I posed as low-maintenance.

I swallowed my needs, tucked away my sadness, and became desirable through self-erasure.

But underneath the surface, I ached to be real.

To be messy, loud, contradictory.

To be someone who doesn’t have to earn affection through performance.

The Illusion of Being Ideal

There’s a quiet kind of violence in being placed on a pedestal.

You’re adored—but only as long as you don’t step down from it.

You’re admired—but only for how well you hide the parts that make you human.

Fantasies don’t have opinions.

Fantasies don’t need space.

Fantasies don’t fall apart or need time alone.

And so, when I showed any sign of reality—grief, anger, desire, limits—

they didn’t know how to love me anymore.

Because I was never loved as me—only as a reflection of their needs.

And that’s the cost of being made into a dream:

You vanish the moment you stop being convenient.

Coming Home to My Humanity

Now, I am reclaiming what was always mine.

My body, with its scars and softness.

My voice, with its tremors and truth.

My mind, with its questions and clarity.

I am not here to be ethereal, untouchable, or perfect.

I am here to be fully alive.

I feel deeply. I grieve loudly. I take up space.

I change my mind. I get things wrong. I try again.

And none of that makes me less worthy of love.

It makes me human.

I no longer need to be seen as ideal.

I want to be seen as whole.

You Cannot Touch Me If You Do Not See Me

There’s nothing intimate about being admired from afar.

True closeness comes not from imagining who I am—

but from choosing to stay when the illusion shatters.

Because when the fantasy fades, what’s left is real love—or nothing at all.

The kind of love I welcome now doesn’t flinch at my depth.

It doesn’t silence my anger or fear my tenderness.

It meets me eye to eye and says:

""You don’t have to disappear to be loved here.""

That’s the love I give myself first.

The love that no longer needs to be earned.

The love that knows I don’t have to be anything other than exactly who I am.

Not a Dream—A Life

I am not your dream girl.

I am not your muse, your mystery, your emotional caretaker.

I am not a story you get to write.

I am the author of my own becoming.

I am skin and soul, doubt and devotion.

I am flesh—sacred and tired and soft.

I am breath—alive, fluctuating, uncontainable.

I am truth—especially when it’s messy. Especially when it’s mine.

If that makes me “too much,”

then I was never meant to fit in your fantasy.

But I will always fit in my own life.

Fully. Fiercely. Unapologetically.

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