For as long as I can remember, my biggest struggle has been with self-esteem. Not just shyness, but a deep fear of people, of being seen, of speaking, of existing in front of others. It feels beyond a word I can find. My own personal self-destruction lives in my head. Before I even meet another human being, I’ve already destroyed myself ten times over. Torn myself to shreds.

I need to be honest here, in the hope that somewhere out there is someone who shares something similar. I’ve always believed I am not good enough. Not because of what I do or how I behave, my actions towards others are only ever with the best intentions, but because I simply have no confidence in myself. Why would anyone think I could be a suitable friend? Why would anyone want to know me? These thoughts scream unsolicited in my head daily. My own disgust in myself makes me believe I don’t even have the right to say someone’s name.

When my children ask me, “Mam, if you had a superpower, what would it be?” my answer comes instantly. I would choose invisibility. To be able to go about my day unseen, to walk into shops, to buy food, to put petrol in the car, to pick up the kids from school; all without being noticed. If those Star Trek cloaking devices were real, I’d be first in line. I’m also showing my age! 

I don’t know why I never feel good enough for anyone, because if someone needs help, I’ll always do what I can. Over the years, I’ve fed children who weren’t fed at home, given others a place to stay, supported friends through struggles. My commitment to making others feel seen, heard, and appreciated is strong, maybe because it’s the very care I’ve never allowed for myself. There have been times where people have manipulated me, and in those moments the self-loathing returns. I spiral back into the same questions of why I’m not enough to be taken as I am.

My shyness sits in me like a demon lurking in the shadows, holding me back from progress. Was I simply born this way? Or was it shaped by a childhood where I was never allowed to make decisions, where my mother was emotionally abusive, stripping me of self-worth daily? Routinely she’d stand me naked in front of her full length mirror. Her words; ugly, disgusting, shameful. They still echo inside me. I don’t hear them out loud anymore, but they rest dormant within me, keeping me stuck. No therapy has been able to prise them loose.

Her voice still cuts through me. I never dared to contradict her. She told me nobody would ever look after me the way parents do, and as a child I believed her. I had no outside world to compare her to, no escape. She ensured I was isolated. I still see her cold, pursed lips in nightmares.

At school, I was a shell of myself, dressed in outdated clothes, with hair cut the way she demanded. I was a sitting target for bullies. Yet I did have two friends. When my mam discovered this, she phoned the school and accused them of bullying me. My heart sank when I learned this, those two friends, who had been my only allies, were pulled into the headteacher’s office. After that, they no longer spoke to me. It was her way of keeping me under her control.

Now, as an adult, it isn’t just about invisibility. It’s about chronic people-pleasing. I mould myself to whoever I’m around, desperate to avoid rejection. Deep down, I still see every person as a potential threat, another version of my mam. Within minutes of meeting someone new, my mind is scanning, decoding, trying to predict danger. If I sense even the slightest threat, I withdraw completely.

Relationships feel impossible. I tell people I’m happier single, that I don’t want to disrupt the balance in my life. But really, it’s fear. I don’t believe I have anything to offer. I watch couples and feel like an outsider to something I’ll never have. It isn’t even rejection anymore. It’s an acceptance that love is for others, not for me.

And it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting to want to speak, to show warmth, to let my heart fill the room, but to feel my body rooted by fear of rejection. This is more than shyness. It’s fear of not being good enough to breathe the same air as others. Maybe I am still that child in front of the mirror, stripped of self-worth. That child who believed her mother’s voice.

I write this not for pity, but in the hope that someone, somewhere, will understand. If you’ve ever felt invisible, unworthy, or crushed by the voices of your past, know that I see you, even if we’ve never met.