Fuck My Life — Or: Why Do I Keep Believing I’m Allowed to Need Something?

Fuck my life.

What the hell am I doing, and why do I think I can do it?

This is a cry for help—written from the depths of my own victimhood, and yes, I’m aware of that even as I write it.

I keep thinking about a story Brené Brown tells. A man once asked her why she didn’t study men—why she didn’t look at how men need space to open up. He said, “My wife and daughters would rather see me die on top of my white horse than fall off and show my vulnerability.”

That line has been living in my body lately.

I’ve been doing the work for years. Therapy. Workshops. Training. Embodiment. I’ve gotten better at handling my emotions—but I still hold so much inside. Not because I don’t know how to express myself… but because I keep learning, over and over, that my feelings are too much. Or inconvenient. Or unwelcome.

In my family.

In my attempts at romantic relationships.

The moment I express myself, I become the problem. The villain. The one who “did it wrong.”

Do I always express myself clearly and skillfully? No. I don’t.

But why do I keep trying anyway?

I’ve been divorced for almost 15 years. For most of that time, I consciously—and unconsciously—kept myself out of relationships. Only in the last year have I stepped back in. Logically, I know I’m not too much. But embodying that truth? Fuck, that’s hard.

As a cuddle person. As a hugger. As someone aspiring to coach intimacy—this is brutal. I sit in my own shit again and again, believing that the people in my life don’t have the capacity—or the desire—to sit with me in it.

And I get the responses:

“It’ll pass.”

“You’ll find someone.”

“They’re out there.”

All of it well-meaning. All of it dismissive.

Why do I feel such a pull to help others connect intimately when I can’t find that level of connection for myself?

Why, with all the training and tools, can’t I find balance in my own life?

Isolation is fucking hard when I crave connection—and also get overwhelmed inside of it. I’m tired. I can’t hold space anymore because no one is holding it for me.

My cup is empty.

And I’m exhausted from pretending it’s full.

I’ve asked. I’ve reached. And more often than not, it isn’t received.

I know this comes from victimhood. I also know people try. It’s just not at the level I need.

I need to be held.

I need to cry into someone’s shoulder.

I need a space where I don’t have to be fixed, managed, or made smaller.

And yeah—maybe that doesn’t look masculine enough.

I feel like a scared dog backed into a corner. I need time, patience, and empathy before I can fully show my belly. And the truth is—I want to show my belly. Desperately.

But every time I start to trust, I feel beaten back.

So here I am.

Still wanting connection.

Still believing it’s possible.

Still tired as hell.

Fuck.