24/07/2025
It was in my childhood, I learned to shrink. Not in the Alice in wonderland, magic potion shrinking kinda way, but rather, I learned to diminish my presence, my voice, my very essence to fit into the spaces that others carved out for me.
As a little girl, I had an enormous zest for life, but looking back I now see that I was always the one who blended into the background, a shadow flitting across the walls of family gatherings, school events, and friendships. I watched with wide eyes as my friends laughed loudly, their vibrant personalities filling the air with light, while I felt the need to curl up, to become invisible, to stay quiet. I thought that by making myself smaller, I could ease the burdens of those around me—my parents’ stress, my friends’ insecurities, the unspoken expectations that weighed heavily on our fragile household.
In primary school, my teachers praised me for being quiet and obedient, but with some imagination. While others competed for attention, I perfected the art of silence, of retreating into the recesses of my mind. I learned early that it was easier to be the one who listened rather than the one who spoke. When a classmate cried, I was the shoulder to lean on, the comforting presence that seemed to help them breathe easier. Yet, in the process of caring for others, I neglected the growth of my own spirit, stifling my hopes and dreams until they felt like distant whispers.
As I grew, I became adept at shrinking myself down, moulding my identity to fit the expectations of those around me. I wore the mask of a chameleon, changing colours and shapes to fit in with friends who radiated confidence and charisma. I would laugh along with their jokes, even when they cut too close to the bone, and nod in agreement when they shared their ambitions, all the while suppressing my own desires. I convinced myself that if I made others feel better, if I filled their spaces with my quiet support, perhaps they would share their light with me in return.
Yet, the years of shrinking took their toll. I felt like a ghost drifting through life. While my friends embraced new opportunities, I stood on the sidelines, a spectator in my own story. I worked hard, but my efforts often felt unseen, as though my achievements were merely a reflection of someone else’s light. I longed to shout my triumphs from the rooftops, to bask in the joy of my accomplishments, but the fear of taking up space loomed large. I had become so skilled at shrinking that I forgot how to stand tall.
As an adult, the consequences of my lifelong habit began to manifest in insidious ways. In my relationships, I found myself overextending, always the one to compromise, to say yes even when my heart whispered no. I became the friend who offered a listening ear but seldom sought the same in return. My romantic relationships were fraught with imbalance; I poured myself into partners who needed saving but rarely allowed anyone to see the cracks in my own facade. The more I shrank, the more I felt invisible, lost in a world that seemed to thrive on boldness and self-assertion.
I remember one evening, sitting on my couch, the glow of the television illuminating the room, and suddenly, it hit me—the weight of my own silence. I felt the heaviness of years spent diminishing myself, the enormous toll it took on my spirit. I had crafted a life that revolved around others, but in doing so, I had forgotten how to honour my own needs and desires. I wanted to scream, to reclaim the space I had surrendered, and yet, the fear of being too much, of taking up too much room, held me back.
With time, I began to understand that shrinking myself did not ease the burdens of others; if anything, it perpetuated a cycle of silence and unfulfilled potential. I sought therapy, began to articulate my feelings, and slowly, I learned to stretch my limbs, to embrace the fullness of my existence. It was a painful, beautiful journey of rediscovery, where I learned that it was okay to take up space. I found joy in my own laughter, power in my own voice, and the courage to step out of the shadows.
Now, I still feel the remnants of my old habits tugging at me, a whisper that reminds me to shrink, to withdraw. But I gently and lovingly remind that part of me that she doesn’t need to shrink anymore, encourage her to claim her worth, to honour the person I am becoming. I am learning that by standing tall, I can inspire others to do the same, that my light doesn’t dim theirs but rather ignites a collective brilliance. I may have spent years shrinking, but now, I am on a journey to bloom, to fill the spaces I once feared to occupy. It is in this growth that I find my true self, unapologetically radiant and undeniably me.
If you are reading this and it is resonating then know you are already enough, go find those younger parts that learned a different story and teach them differently.
Let your brilliance inspire another and give them strength to step into their own power.
With love.
Mary
