When Survival Looks Like Confidence

For a long time, people thought I was confident.

I thought so too.

I was independent. Funny. Sharp. I didn’t need much from anyone. I handled my own shit. I was the one people leaned on, not the one asking for help. From the outside, it looked impressive. From the inside, it was exhausting.

Confidence, for me, wasn’t about self-belief.
It was armor.

I learned early that being self-sufficient meant I couldn’t be abandoned as easily. If I didn’t need anyone, no one could leave me stranded. If I stayed light, funny, and a little aloof, no one could get close enough to hurt me. At least, that was the plan.

Being easy. Being agreeable. Being down for whatever. That was part of it too. Saying yes kept people around. It smoothed over emotional distance. It created the illusion of closeness without requiring vulnerability. Sex felt safer than being loved because sex had rules I understood. Love didn’t.

Most of my relationships followed the same pattern. I was strong all the time. Too strong. I carried everything. I handled logistics, emotions, and the future. I dragged partners through life while quietly resenting them for needing to be dragged in the first place. Thinking for two gets old fast when you’re doing it alone.

I never felt protected. I envied women who were soft. The ones who seemed held by the world instead of bracing against it. I didn’t know how to be that woman. I didn’t feel safe enough to even try. Somewhere along the way, softness got buried under layers of competence and sarcasm, and I wasn’t sure if she was still in there.

Independence looked like control.
In actuality, it was isolation.

I told myself I didn’t need anyone. The truth was messier. I wanted to be chosen. Chased. Fought for. I wanted proof that I mattered without having to earn it. When that didn’t happen, I hardened. If people didn’t break down my walls, I decided they weren’t worth letting in. It felt easier to resent them than to risk being disappointed again.

Sex became a way to bridge emotional gaps. I felt closer during it. Wanted. Seen. Necessary. And then afterward, I often felt hollow. Empty. Irritated that they were still there. Or worse, disappointed that the closeness hadn’t followed me out of the bedroom.

I spent years outside my body during sex. In my head. Performing. Managing. Anticipating what came next. It was less about being present and more about keeping the connection alive at any cost. Sometimes that meant losing my inhibitions. Letting my limits fade. Pushing past what felt right just to feel something from someone.

I’m not proud of those moments.
But they were honest attempts at connection.

I sought closeness in the wrong people and the wrong places. I let people do things to me I didn’t really want because it felt better than feeling nothing at all. Desire was easier to control than emotional availability. Being known felt dangerous. Wanting someone too much had consequences.

So I trained myself to expect disappointment. That way, if things went well, it was a pleasant surprise instead of a broken expectation. It wasn’t optimism. It was self-protection.

Eventually, that version of me stopped working.

Not because she was weak.
Because she was tired.

Motherhood changed the stakes. I don’t have the power to change the world, but I do have the power to shape the one my daughter grows up in. I want her to know softness isn’t a liability. That being cared for isn’t something you have to earn. That confidence doesn’t have to hurt to be real.

My relationship with intimacy has changed too. I feel more present now. More grounded. Sex isn’t a tool or a weapon anymore. It’s not proof of my worth or a way to stay relevant. It’s closeness. Vulnerability. Something that actually fills me instead of draining me.

I don’t want to become the woman I used to be again.
She kept me alive. I wish someone had protected her.
But I don’t want to live inside her armor forever.

Real confidence, I’ve learned, isn’t being untouchable.
It’s knowing when to take the armor off.