Maybe I’m Between Versions of Myself

There’s a version of me that wants peace: Soft mornings. Art museums. Slow love. Intentionality. A life that feels grounded instead of constantly emotionally charged. A version of me that no longer confuses inconsistency with mystery or longing with connection.

And then there’s another version of me. The girl that still loves the music too loud. The rush. The nightlife. The flirtation. The possibility hidden inside random nights and dim lights and strangers that feel familiar for a few hours. The girl that likes getting dressed to go nowhere important. The girl that still finds freedom on dance floors.

Lately I’ve been wondering if these versions of me are conflicting or if they’re simply unfinished.

I keep trying to decode what everything means.

What does it mean when someone never responds to your messages but watches every story you post? What does it mean when someone from your past suddenly resurfaces online? What does it mean when old lovers reappear right when you think you’re finally moving on?

What does any of it mean?

I think part of me wants life to be a map. I want signs. Meaning. Confirmation that I am either healing correctly or headed somewhere worthwhile. Sometimes I wonder if my obsession with understanding people is really just my way of trying to protect myself from uncertainty.

Because uncertainty is terrifying.

There are still parts of me attached to people I no longer speak to regularly. There are still parts of me trying to understand J.K. Trying to understand why silence can still feel emotionally loud. Why someone can remain present through views, likes, and quiet digital lingering while being completely absent in every way that actually matters.

And Michael…

Sometimes I wonder if he was the one that got away or if I simply met him during a chapter where neither of us fully knew how to hold something good.

Maybe timing matters more than feelings do.

Maybe readiness matters more than connection.

Or maybe some people are meant to shift you, not stay.

I don’t know yet.

That’s the hardest part about growth. Sometimes you outgrow old patterns before you fully grow into new ones. You exist in this strange middle space where your old coping mechanisms no longer fit, but your new life hasn’t fully formed yet either.

Maybe that’s where I am now.

Between versions of myself.

There’s also an extreme loneliness I do not talk about enough. Not because I hate being alone. Honestly, I enjoy myself deeply. I love my solitude. I love taking myself out, traveling alone, writing, wandering through museums, sitting with my thoughts, building a life that feels like mine.

But the truth is, I do enjoy my own company. I just sometimes get tired of being the only person consistently there for me.

I think people mistake loneliness for lack of self-love. But I love myself deeply. I have just spent so much time carrying myself alone that sometimes I crave softness in another form.

Good male companionship is not easy for me to shake. Not shallow attention. Not random validation. I mean genuine presence. Safety. Consistency. Someone to reach for besides myself.

And maybe that’s why loneliness feels more dangerous at night. Especially under the influence.

Sometimes when I am under the influence, my loneliness becomes louder than my discernment.

Suddenly I am not texting because I genuinely believe someone is right for me. I am texting because I want to feel held by something outside of myself, even temporarily.

The Uber driver I met recently joked that my future husband probably wasn’t in the club. We laughed about it, but part of me carried the conversation home. She told me people can still “smell” the party on me. And maybe she was right in a way.

Not because partying makes someone unworthy of love.

Not because joy, nightlife, or freedom are inherently shallow.

But because maybe energy lingers.

Maybe people can sense when you are still halfway attached to old cycles. Halfway committed to healing. Halfway convinced you deserve the kind of love you say you want.

And that realization hurt a little.

Because I do want love. Real love. The kind that feels calm instead of confusing. The kind that does not leave me searching for hidden meanings inside social media interactions. The kind that does not make me question my worth every few days.

But I also do not want to lose myself trying to become “desirable.”

I don’t want to become smaller. Quieter. Less outspoken. Less free. Less myself.

I want to believe the right person would understand me fully. Not just the healed parts. Not just the polished parts. But the complicated parts too. The loud laugh. The emotional depth. The softness hiding underneath the independence. The woman who loves both poetry and parties. Reflection and release. Solitude and celebration.

Maybe my issue isn’t that I am too much.

Maybe I am simply becoming more intentional about who gets access to me while still learning how to access myself.

And maybe healing is not a straight line toward perfection. Maybe it’s just slowly recognizing which patterns no longer feel like home.