At some point on my path to higher consciousness (yes, I meditate, don’t roll your eyes), I stumbled on a truth so loud it slapped me clean across my chakras. I was addicted. Not to substances or sex or validation, though let’s not pretend those didn’t have cameos, but to emotions. The big ones. The messy ones. The ones that leave mascara trails on pillowcases or have you texting long paragraphs at 2 a.m. when you should be asleep or minding your business.
Sadness, anxiety, joy, anger, excitement… name the emotion, I chased the high. And here’s the plot twist: I thought it made me deep. I convinced myself I was channeling all this chaos into creativity, that my sensitivity was my superpower. Romantic, right? A tortured artist sipping wine, crying to Solange. But what I really was… was emotionally stoned. And worse? I was using people to get my fix.
Turns out, you don’t always need to be the one in pain to feel it. I became an emotional leech sucking energy from partners, friends, lovers, exes, whoever had a storm brewing under their smile. I absorbed their sadness like steam in a hot shower. My body knew the drill: cortisol, adrenaline, the familiar buzz of “something’s wrong.” That’s the trick with trauma, it disguises itself as home.
My relationships were rollercoasters I bought tickets to with my own self-worth. I’d mistake emotional turbulence for passion. If it wasn’t intense, it wasn’t real. If it didn’t hurt a little, I didn’t trust it. That’s how addiction works. It romanticizes your ruin.
Eventually, I broke. Not dramatically, not beautifully. Quietly. The kind of burnout that creeps in slowly and steals your joy like a thief. My body stopped cooperating. My creativity fizzled. My passion? Nowhere to be found. I had to sit my emotionally exhausted ass down and feel what was really mine.
Healing wasn’t glamorous. It was asking hard questions in the quiet: “Is this mine?” “Is this helping me grow or just keeping me spinning?” I started journaling. Meditating. Crying for reasons that made sense. I learned the difference between being emotionally open and emotionally dependent. Between feeling deeply and drowning in other people’s storms.
And somewhere in that stillness, I found myself. Not the dramatics. Not the reactions. Me. The raw, the soft, the safe.
Now? I choose peace. I choose emotional clarity over chaos. I still feel everything, don’t get me wrong, this heart is still dramatic. But now I don’t need to suffer to feel alive. I don’t need to be loved loud to be loved well.
To anyone out there who confuses emotional chaos with connection, baby, you deserve more than the high. You deserve calm. You deserve real.
And love? Real love should feel like coming home, to a home that you like, not surviving a storm or being in one.
