The You No One Knew Wanted to Lose Their Mind…

Hey you,

I don’t even know how to begin this letter without sounding like I’m spiraling. But then again, maybe I am spiraling. Maybe I’ve been spiraling for years, in silence, behind filters, checklists, curated laughs, and the applause of people who didn’t even know my real name. Or worse—they knew it, but never me.

This is about the me I buried, The me who sat in a group chat sending memes but couldn’t get out of bed, The me who looked like “that girl” on the outside…organised, articulate, dependable… but inside was screaming like a TV stuck on max volume in an empty room.

No one knew I wanted to lose my mind. But God, I did.

Not because I’m careless. Not because I wanted attention. But because I didn’t know what else to do with the chaos I kept hiding in little invisible boxes. The kind you keep deep in your chest. The ones labeled:

“Don’t talk about this.”

“Smile through it.”

“Fix it later.”

“You should be grateful.”

But you can only tuck away so much of yourself before you start leaking. Before your smile starts glitching, Before your laugh turns hollow and your ambition becomes autopilot.

I was addicted to being seen as perfect. And it cost me everything.

Because when you’re addicted to being seen as perfect, you become an expert at emotional fraud. You don’t just lie to others—you lie to yourself. You forget how to feel things in real time, you cry at 2AM over things that happened years ago, because that’s the only time you allow yourself to not be “okay.”

And when things went sour, I didn’t even know how to ask for help. I just got quieter, Smarter with my lies, Better at pretending. I’d say, “I’m just tired.” I’d post affirmations. I’d go ghost for three days and come back with an aesthetic photo dump. All while fighting a war inside my own head.

People clapped for the version of me that was killing me. That’s the worst part. They loved the girl who never messed up, who was always “on,” who made it look easy. But no one asked what it was costing me to keep being her.

So I broke.

Not all at once, but like a phone screen that’s been dropped one too many times. Little cracks. A flicker here and there. The brightness dimming. Until one day, it just stopped working.

I stopped working.

Not because I was weak. But because I was done performing strength.

I needed a moment. Or a million. I needed to let the pain breathe. I needed to stop glamorizing resilience and start honoring rest, softness, and the parts of me I had hidden for years.

And maybe you’re reading this and feeling it too. That familiar ache. That quiet panic behind your eyes. That voice saying, “What if I fall apart and no one’s there to hold me?”

I hear you. I am you.

Here’s what I’m learning, slowly:

You don’t have to earn rest.

You don’t have to be whole to be loved.

And you are allowed to be seen in your mess, not just your milestones.

There’s a you that no one knew. The one who wanted to lose their mind because it felt like the only escape. But guess what? That version of you deserves grace too. Not shame. Not silence. Grace.

If you’re still here, still reading, still breathing through the static—I’m proud of you. I mean that.

This is your permission to fall apart.

And rebuild.

And maybe this time, not as someone perfect.

But as someone real.

With you always,

JuJu.🎀❤️