She didn't rush to contradict me. Didn't try to patch the wound with quick comfort. Instead, she let the quiet hold for a moment before speaking.
"That feeling," she said finally, "is what shame does. It doesn't just hurt—it rewrites the entire narrative. Betrayal stops being abouthisdecision and becomes evidence againstyou. Shame turns it into a verdict: you weren't enough. Someone else was more. It takes away your right to be angry and leaves you only with comparison."
Her words were clinical, almost precise, but her tone was warm enough that I didn't flinch.
I stared down at my hands, throat tightening. "And the worst part? I don't even think I was mad at him. Not really. I was mad at myself. For not being her. For not being whatever I needed to be to make him stay."
Dr. Hale nodded slowly, as if she'd heard this a hundred times but still considered it unique every time. "That's a common response," she said. "When trust is broken, especially by someone we love, we often try to make sense of it by blaming ourselves. Self-blame feels safer because it gives us the illusion of control — if it was your fault, then you can prevent it from happening again by being 'better.'"
Her eyes softened just slightly, inviting me to look up, "You made his choice your failure," she said gently. "You turned his betrayal into evidence that you were replaceable, rather than seeing it as a reflection ofhisvalues,hisbehavior."
My throat ached. I managed a small nod. "Because that's what it felt like. Not just that I was left, but that I was left for someone better, and if she's better, then I must be worse."
Dr. Hale leaned forward slightly. "Or," she said, her tone thoughtful, "it means he made a choice that says more about whereheis, and less about your worth than you think."
"So how do I fix it?" I asked. "How do I stop believing that voice in my head when it's been there for so long?"
"You don't fix it," she said. "You meet it. You learn where it came from. You begin to notice it when it speaks, and instead of believing it by default, you start asking questions."
She paused.
"You don't have to force yourself to feel beautiful. That's not the goal. We start by untangling the belief that your worth is tied to being beautiful at all. We look at the origin—your mother's voice, the bullying, Alex's betrayal, Ryder's words—and we start separating those external messages from your internal truth."
"It's called unconditional positive self-regard," she added. "It's the belief that you have value, innate value, not because of your appearance, your performance, or anyone's approval. You don't earn it. You already have it. The work now is learning to believe that."
I felt the sting behind my eyes but didn't let the tears fall. My throat burned with the effort to hold everything in, but something in her voice, gentle but unshakable, made me want to let go.
"Okay," I said, voice hoarse. "Where do we start?"
She smiled. Not pitying. Just steady, "We start with the parts of you that never got to speak. The ones that were told they weren't enough. We help them find their voice."
I nodded slowly, but I still didn't really understand what that meant. "And how do I do that?"
Dr. Hale leaned back slightly, folding her hands. Her tone stayed calm, but purposeful.
"First, we notice the voice in your head—the one that says you're not enough. We don't try to silence it or argue with it right away. We get curious about it. When it speaks, I want you to pause and ask:Whose voice is this?Your mother's? Alex's? The kids in school? That one friend who said, 'Well... look at her'?"
I felt my chest tighten again. But this time, it felt like something was surfacing, not sinking.
"Then what?" I asked.
"Then you respond—not with shame, but with compassion. You write it down if you need to. You speak to that voice the way you'd speak to a younger version of yourself. The girl who stood in front of the mirror dreading what her mother would say. The one who sat at lunch feeling invisible. The one who tried to make herself smaller so she wouldn't be left again."
She let that sit before continuing.
"You start re-parenting those parts of yourself. You tell them:You didn't deserve that. You were never a burden. You don't have to be perfect to be loved.And even if you don't believe it at first, you keep saying it. You keep showing up. That's how self-trust begins—through consistency, not perfection."
I swallowed hard. "So... talk to myself?"
"In a way, yes," she said. "But not the self that performs or masks. The self that hurts. The one that's still waiting for someone to say, 'You're enough just as you are.' You become that someone."
I looked down at my hands, voice barely above a whisper, "That feels... hard."
"It is," she said gently. "Because you've spent so many years abandoning yourself in order to be accepted by others. But the healing begins when you stop abandoning yourself, even in the smallest moments. When you choose to stay with your pain instead of running from it. When you offer yourself kindness instead of punishment."
She leaned forward again, her tone soft but firm, "Start with one small moment. One negative thought. One story you've always believed. Write it down. Then ask:Who gave me this belief?and more importantly:Do I still want to carry it?"
"You've spent years asking why you weren't enough for them, December" she said quietly. "What would happen if, just once, you asked whytheywere never enough for you?"
