Insecurities/ Love Is In The Air.

The insecurity began when I was just ten years old. I used to hate looking in the mirror. Not because I was ugly—just because I was not her . My cousin was three years older, but honestly? She looked like she had stepped out of a magazine before she even hit puberty. Blonde hair and a waist so tiny I could circle it with one hand, and yeah… those boobs. They showed up way too early, like nature decided to fast-forward her body while I was still wearing training bras and praying for a growth spurt. She’d walk into a room and every head turned. I’d follow behind, invisible. And I would constantly hear about it. 

Every morning I’d wake up to her stretching like a cat, hair perfect even before breakfast, while I’d tug my pajama shirt down over my flat chest and wish I could disappear. 

Eventually I would hear “you’re not enough” from family, friends and the universe as a whole. As if I was supposed to be grateful for second place. 

I would cry in the shower until the water went cold. But eventually, something shifted. Not because I suddenly loved my body— but because he does. I finally found someone who taught me how to be good enough.  I realized: my cousin wasn’t perfect. She was loud, clumsy, terrible at math, and secretly terrified of being just a pretty face. We were both insecure. Hers was just louder. 

Years after she left ,the scars remained: I had a battle with an eating disorder and I even began competing against my own mother. It was not until I fell into the depths of hell and was pulled out by the greatest man alive, that I grasped the fact that I could be good enough too.

Now I find myself struggling to drown out the “you are not good enough” feeling again as I prepare for last solo flight to Boston this week.

I have always loved flying first class. Not because of the champagne or the extra legroom—though yeah, those help—but because it is the one place where no one needs anything from me. No texts, no calls, no small talk. Just me, an aisle seat, and five hours of quiet. I can finally exhale. 

This trip will be different. Like it is final. Like I am closing a chapter mid-flight. For years,  I have  been doing this dance: Boston one weekend, home the next. He’d send the ticket, I’d pack, we’d laugh and spend time together and pretend the miles didn’t matter. First class made it bearable—luxury as a bandage. 

But bandages don’t heal distance. They just keep the wound from bleeding on the carpet. 

This is my last solo trip. Next time I land in Boston, I’ll be stepping off with him—or not at all. I love the flight. I love the quiet. But I don’t love the back-and-forth. I’m done commuting. As I introduced myself as the obedient good girl, he had never pictured me saying no. And honestly? That felt better than the seat upgrade. It might have made me cry in the shower again. But I am not giving up on us and I am not going to hit rock bottom again. I’m just giving up on pretending this works. Love shouldn’t feel like a layover. 

This is goodbye to the solo aisle, the complimentary mimosa, the little blanket they fold into a square. And hello to whatever comes next. Maybe it will be messy, but I know that I cannot be ruined like before. At least it won’t be 30,000 feet apart. I think I’ll miss the quiet. But I won’t miss the goodbye.

The goodbye is the worst. We spend time together at the airport— having drinks, getting food and maybe he even buys me some memorabilia. But then at the gate, I rehearse it in my head—keep it cool, keep it short trying not to get too clingy. But then my throat does that stupid thing where it knots up and suddenly I am choking on “see you later” like it’s a confession— something that I am ashamed of . Worst part? He always knows. He hears the crack in my voice, the way my eyes flick away from his. And we both pretend it’s fine, because saying “I don’t want you to go” feels too real, too needy. 

But honestly? I just say it. I have hidden for far too long. Maybe I should have just told my cousin to stop calling me “Miss Piggy” and actually stood up for myself instead of letting my insecurities morph into a brain tumor that would eventually steal half my body. 

I guess the real glow-up isn’t boobs or blonde hair. It’s deciding you don’t need to be anyone else to be enough.  He shows me that I am good enough so I will let it hurt. Goodbye tastes like metal anyway—might as well make it honest.

Well I am done hurting. Maybe this is the way