I’ve come close. I can feel it. What I’ve been searching for so long, I think I’ve almost found.
Subconscious substitutions of true beliefs with false ones
I want to love. But I’m afraid. Because love, to me, means pain. Eventually, I stop wanting to love altogether. My heart longs for it, but my head pulls away.
I want to build close relationships, but I’m scared. Scared that I’ll be responsible for making them perfect. Scared of being betrayed. Scared to trust—and to be trusted. I fear rejection so much that the idea of reaching out to someone I like feels unbearable. What if they’re not interested? What if everyone turns away? Then I’ll be completely alone. I even fear using my feminine charm to attract someone—because if it doesn’t work, I’ll feel like I’ve failed as a woman. So I stop wanting intimacy. I crave it deeply, but my mind resists.
I want to get in shape. But I’m afraid. Because I know that when I lose the weight, people will notice. That means I’ll need to deal with the attention, the invitations, the vulnerability. I’ll have to take responsibility for being seen. I’ll have to embody my femininity more fully. And that feels overwhelming.
I want to return to university. But I’m afraid. The responsibility is heavy—but that’s not the scariest part. What terrifies me is not being the best. I’ve always had to be first. Anything less than excellent doesn’t feel like enough. I want my brilliance to be seen, to be recognized. And I’m afraid I’ll fail.
True beliefs
I want to love. Love is beautiful. It cleanses and elevates. It only brings pain when we try to own it—when we forget that it’s meant to flow, not be controlled. Love is its own force, independent of outcomes. As Lyudmila Gurchenko once said, “Love is always one, it’s the objects that are different.” There’s nothing to fear in love. It’s almost amusing to be afraid of it—like being afraid to live.
I want to build a relationship. A close, soul-anchored connection. I want to give and receive love. I want to wake up in someone’s arms and fall asleep on their shoulder. I want to be woken up with kisses and return them. I want to enjoy a man’s body and offer him the same joy. I want our souls to touch, to lift. I want to cook for him and feel his strong presence by my side. I want to feel like a woman—not a machine who always handles everything alone. I don’t mind doing things myself, but when you “always do everything yourself,” it’s easy to forget that you’re not meant to be both the woman and the man.
I want to soften into my womanhood—to nurture, to welcome, to open. I want to place his flowers in a square vase, run my fingers through his thick dark hair, tickle his nose with my eyelashes, kiss his neck and collarbones, feel his lips against my skin. I want to feel warm hands wrap around me at night and gently pull me closer in sleep. I want private jokes, intimate language, quiet friendship, and lasting closeness. I want to hold him up when he’s struggling, and know he’ll do the same for me. Warmth and affection. Hot tea on a cold morning and cool juice on a summer day. Traveling at 120 km/h or sitting still with our hearts racing. I want to be half of something whole.
God, how beautiful that is. What a sacred kind of responsibility. What sacred trust. Not being together to take or even to give, but to co-create. Now I know the kind of relationship I want. And it no longer feels scary to lose it—because it was never “mine” to lose. But what we create together in love, that will always be ours.
And feminine tricks? They never mattered anyway. I’m open now. Open to the kind of relationship I want. And I know something will begin, and it will be with the right person—the one I truly desire.
It’s unlikely I’ll find someone who will accept me exactly as I am, with all my quirks, who I’ll also find sexually magnetic, dominant, stronger and smarter than me. And then there’s the fact that I’m always searching. That kind of woman isn’t easy to pair with.
But I want to be accepted as I am. This version of me. Exactly like this. I don’t want to be reshaped into a shallow version of myself. I know my value—my curiosity, my inner work, my strength. But I also know those things don’t always matter in romantic relationships. Something else is often expected. And I’m not sure how much I have to offer from that list.
I can live alone. I’ve always lived alone. And I will again if I must. It’s not terrifying. But somewhere deep down, I know I wouldn’t want to. Sometimes I think it’d be easier not to know, to just stay asleep in the Matrix. But then I remember—awareness is always the better path. It’s better to know who you are, where you are, and why you’re here… than to play a game that was never yours.
