As a child, I was captivated by the world of books, movies, and art. My imagination knew no bounds, and I often found myself creating my own stories and drawings—I had a real talent for it. But as I entered my teenage years, I gradually stopped reading and instead escaped into a fantasy world within my room, soundtracked by music. To this day, whenever I hear a song from my childhood, it brings back waves of memories and emotions. I often end up feeling deeply nostalgic and sad, though I’m not always sure why.

My family were very academic, and I never felt quite as smart as my siblings. My parents weren’t bad—they provided for us and wanted us to succeed—but they were more providers than carers. I didn’t receive much affection growing up; in fact, the first time my mum hugged me was in my twenties. There was a lot of pressure on us, and I felt things very deeply—music, emotions, the energy in a room. I often thought I had a sixth sense for other people’s feelings toward me. In hindsight, I realise I was probably just hypersensitive, but I was also deeply empathetic. I felt other people’s pain as if they were mine.

I had really intense emotions —both the highs and the lows—but I was taught to suppress them. I was often told not to cry so much, to stop being silly, to act like things didn’t bother me. It was embarrassing, they’d say. That conditioning led me to believe that the way I experienced life was wrong—something to be ashamed of. So, what did I do? I buried it all. I used every ounce of energy to hide that part of myself. I wanted the world to see me, but I didn’t know how.

Despite always feeling different, I managed to get by. I’m what you’d call an extroverted introvert—I’m good at making friends and was relatively successful, so people often saw me as “strong.” But when it came to forming deeper relationships, that’s when things became difficult. I suffered from a fear of abandonment and had many episodes of splitting on partners. For years, I battled imposter syndrome and struggled to find a meaningful connection with a significant other.

When I was finally diagnosed, things started to make sense. But being the empath I am, it was hard to look back. I kept questioning whether my childhood had really been “bad enough” to justify the diagnosis—which only fed into the imposter syndrome. But stepping back helped me understand the rollercoaster I’d been on, and why it needed to happen.

In recovery, I discovered my power. I realised that everything I needed was already within me—my imagination, my mind, my creativity, and my friends. Falling down over and over again helped me see that I could walk this path bravely, with my head held high. From the ashes, I built a new foundation—and I “rediscovered” the love of my life.

My goal now is to help others figure out who they are, and to finally love themselves