Parisian Perspectives

Does anyone truly understand who they are? Does anyone truly understand their purpose? Their feelings?

The thing that confuses me most in this lifetime is myself. I’ve spent so much time trying to figure out my emotions—am I angry? Sad? Anxious? Scared? Sometimes, I can’t even tell. They blur together into something I can’t name, leaving me questioning if I’ll ever truly know what I feel or why I feel it.

How do you reach that point where you truly understand yourself? Or is it possible I’ve suppressed my emotions so deeply, for so long, that I don’t even recognize them—or myself—anymore?

Maybe you never really understand something until you experience it firsthand. That’s the only way it seems to make sense—through living it. But I have this bad habit of dragging out situations, letting them linger longer than they should, because it takes me too long to understand why I feel the way I do.

Don’t they say not to act until you truly know? But what happens when you can’t figure it out? When the clarity you’re waiting for never comes, and you’re left holding the pieces of emotions you can’t even name?

You hurt people. 

In my innocent attempt to avoid making decisions until I fully understand myself—so I won’t have regrets—I often find myself walking an unfamiliar path of shame, guilt, and regret anyway. It’s ironic, isn’t it? The very thing I’m trying to avoid ends up finding me.

And then I wonder: Is it selfish to hold onto someone while I’m still trying to figure myself out? Is it fair to ask someone to stay while I wrestle with my own confusion? I know the answer should be obvious, but it’s not. Sometimes, holding on feels like if I let go before I truly understand, I’ll lose more than just the person; I’ll lose my chance at clarity.

Yes, its selfish. 

Sometimes I feel like I suppress my true feelings and emotions because, deep down, I know they’re a direct result of my own actions. My actions, my decisions, my choices—they’re the reason I feel the way I do. It’s a bitter truth to swallow. Sometimes, I don’t like the chapters I’ve created.

It’s hard to accept when you’re the one in control. When you realize the hurt isn’t something that just happened to you—it’s something you walked yourself into. That level of accountability is heavy, and it’s tempting to push it down, to ignore it, to blame it on anything else. But no matter how much I suppress it, it always finds its way back to the surface.

Regret is my current battle but soon it will transform into acceptance. 

Acceptance isn’t about forgetting—it’s about choosing to move forward anyway. I’m not there yet, but I can feel it coming