How Much Me Is Left In Me?

By Anshul Purvia

Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize the person looking back. She smiles too easily, nods too often, apologizes even when she hasn’t done anything wrong. There’s something hollow behind her eyes, something tired that no amount of sleep can fix. I stare and wonder when she became this version of me. When did I stop living for myself and start existing for everyone else?

I used to think I was kind. I used to believe that being nice meant being good. But now I see it wasn’t kindness,it was fear. Fear of disappointing people, fear of being rejected, fear of being left behind. Somewhere in between all the “it’s okay” and “don’t worry about it,” I began to erase myself. I’ve said yes so many times that the word no feels foreign in my mouth, like a language I used to speak but forgot over the years.

People call me the easy one, the chill one, the person you can always count on. But what they don’t see is how much it costs me to keep being that person. I’ve become a mirror for everyone else, reflecting what they need, what they want, what makes them comfortable. I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. I stay quiet when I should speak up. I say sorry when someone else hurts me. I play the part so well that even I’ve started to believe the act.

It’s scary how easy it is to lose yourself quietly. It doesn’t happen in one big moment, like the movies. It happens slowly, in small ways. You stop saying what you really think. You agree when you want to disagree. You choose peace over honesty. You keep the conversation light when your heart is heavy. One day you realize you’ve been living for applause that never comes, for people who wouldn’t even notice if you disappeared.

I can’t even tell you what I like anymore. My favorite color, my favorite food, the music that makes me feel alive,all of it feels borrowed from someone else. When someone asks, “What do you want?” I freeze. Because what if they don’t like my answer? What if I say the wrong thing and they leave? So I say, “Whatever you want is fine.” It’s easier that way. Less risky. But every time I say it, I feel another part of me fade away.

There’s a version of me deep down, screaming to be heard. The one who used to dream without asking for permission. The one who didn’t shrink herself to fit into other people’s comfort zones. The one who loved loudly and spoke honestly. I miss her. But I don’t know how to bring her back. She’s buried under layers of “I’m fine” and “don’t worry” and “as long as you’re happy.”

I’ve spent so long trying to make everyone else comfortable that I forgot what comfort feels like for me. I keep giving and giving, thinking maybe one day someone will notice how much it hurts to always be the strong one, the patient one, the one who never asks for anything in return. But people only notice when you stop giving. And by then, they’re already gone.

Sometimes, late at night, I lie awake and replay conversations in my head, all the times I should have spoken up but didn’t. All the moments I betrayed myself just to keep the peace. I realize how much of my life has been built on pretending. Pretending I’m happy. Pretending I’m okay. Pretending it doesn’t hurt to be overlooked.

The truth is, I’m exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually. I’m tired of being the one who understands, who forgives too fast, who absorbs other people’s pain while hiding her own. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around people who wouldn’t even notice if I broke down in front of them. I’m tired of smiling when all I want to do is cry.

There are moments when I want to disappear for a while—not die, but just... vanish. Go somewhere no one knows me, no one expects anything from me. Somewhere I can breathe without feeling guilty for it. I want silence. I want space. I want to remember what it feels like to exist without performing.

I don’t hate the people around me. They’re just used to the version of me I created for them. The one who says yes. The one who never complains. The one who takes care of everything. But that version is falling apart. I can feel the cracks forming, the mask slipping. I can’t keep being everything for everyone while being nothing for myself.

I keep asking myself, how much me is left in me?

Because when I look closely, I see pieces missing—pieces I gave away to people who never looked back, pieces I traded for love, for peace, for belonging. And now, standing here, I don’t know if I can ever put them back together.

Maybe one day I’ll stop saying sorry for existing. Maybe one day I’ll say no without guilt. Maybe one day I’ll stop being the background character in my own life. But today, all I can do is admit the truth;

I’ve lost myself trying to make everyone else happy.

And I don’t know how to come back.

By Anshul Purvia