Journal Entry: The Version of Me From 3 Years Ago

Not in a motivational way. Not a “look how far I’ve come” reflection with clean edges and a satisfying ending. Just an honest comparison between who I am now and the version of me that was, for a long time, pretending to be fine.

Three years ago, I was struggling.

But what defined that period more than anything wasn’t just the struggle itself, it was how consistently I tried to hide it. I wasn’t visibly falling apart. I was functioning. I showed up where I needed to show up. I answered when I was spoken to. I did what was expected of me. On the outside, I looked like I was managing. That was the point.

Because internally, I wasn’t.

It wasn’t a single obvious crisis. It was a steady, ongoing weight. A kind of internal noise that never fully turns off. Overthinking wasn’t occasional, it was constant. Every interaction carried afterthoughts. Every silence had meaning. Every small detail became something to replay later, re-examine, and question.

And so I adapted.

I learned how to perform “fine.”

It started subtly. Smiling when I didn’t feel like it. Laughing at the right moments. Saying “I’m good” without hesitation. Keeping conversations light so nothing deeper would surface. Over time, it became automatic. I didn’t have to decide to do it anymore, it just became the default version of me.

But it took effort. A lot of it.

Pretending to be okay is not neutral. It’s not space. It’s active work. Constant regulation. Constant monitoring of how you’re coming across. Constant suppression of anything that might break the illusion.

And the strangest part is how normal it starts to feel. You forget there’s a gap between what you’re showing and what you’re actually experiencing. Or rather, you stop acknowledging it. Because acknowledging it makes everything harder to maintain.

That first ALIVE meeting sits right in the middle of that version of me.

I went in already holding myself together. Already managing myself carefully. Already trying to look like I belonged there, like I was comfortable, like I was just another person in the room.

Inside, I wasn’t.

And when it came time to speak, I couldn’t.

It wasn’t hesitation in the usual sense. It was a full internal shutdown. My mind went blank, my body followed, and I sat there trying to maintain the appearance of being fine while feeling completely the opposite. That contradiction of the gap between how I looked and what was actually happening was exhausting in itself.

I remember thinking not about what to say, but about how to not be noticed, not saying anything.

That was the pattern back then. Not just struggling, but managing how invisible that struggle was allowed to be.

Looking at my life now, the biggest shift isn’t that I’ve become a different person in the dramatic sense. It’s not that anxiety disappeared or that everything became easy or natural. That version of change doesn’t match reality.

What changed is the amount of energy I spend pretending.

Three years ago, most of my capacity went into maintaining an appearance of stability. Now, I don’t operate like that anymore. There’s less separation between what I feel internally and what I allow to exist externally. Not complete alignment, but less effort spent hiding the gap.

That changes how you move through the world.

There are still moments when I go quiet. Still moments where I feel that familiar tightening in social situations, that instinct to withdraw or say less or step back into myself. That hasn’t disappeared. It probably won’t completely disappear.

But it doesn’t automatically take over everything anymore.

Back then, if I felt overwhelmed, I would retreat inward and try to cover it up outwardly at the same time. Now, sometimes I just let it be there. Sometimes I stay in the room anyway. Sometimes I speak even when it doesn’t feel completely comfortable.

Not because the discomfort is gone, but because I’m no longer organising my entire behaviour around hiding it.

And that’s the part the version of me from three years ago would probably find hardest to understand.

Because from where he was standing, “fine” wasn’t just something you said, it was something you had to maintain at all costs. Anything else felt like failure, or exposure, or risk.

But what I understand now is that the performance itself was part of what kept things stuck. Not because it was wrong, but because it left no room for anything else to exist.

That earlier version of me wasn’t broken. He was coping in the only way that made sense at the time: by holding everything in and keeping everything contained.

But it came at a cost.

And if I’m honest, I don’t think I realised how high that cost was until I stopped paying it in the same way.

Now, things are more honest. Not perfect. Not easy. Just less hidden.

And that, more than anything, is the difference.