In college, I was a walking Sour Patch Kid—sugary sweet to strangers and painfully sour to those who loved me.
To the outside world, I was all smiles—kind, accommodating, helpful. If someone needed anything, I was the first to show up. People often told me what a “nice” person I was—and maybe I was—to them.
But to the people closest to me, I was sharp. Cold. Sometimes, even cruel.
Being sweet to strangers felt safe. There was no emotional risk, no vulnerability. But with the people who actually had access to my heart, I was reactive, controlling, and defensive. I pushed people away before they could leave. I hurt others before they could hurt me—because feeling in control felt safer than feeling pain.
If my friends didn’t do what I wanted, I’d make them feel bad. Once, a close friend got into a relationship and posted about it on Facebook before telling me. I was livid—not just hurt—furious. I guilt-tripped her and questioned our entire friendship.
With romantic partners, it got worse. I remember once being so upset with someone I was seeing—over something I can’t even remember now—that I told him to unalive himself. That cruelty came from a place I hadn’t even begun to understand.
Another time, a partner called me out on my behavior, and I iced him out completely. Shut him down. Yes, we were technically on a break. But he slept with someone else and didn’t tell me. I still felt betrayed—not because of what he did, but because he wouldn’t own it. Instead of giving me honesty, he hid behind my trauma and called me the problem.
I didn’t realize it then, but I was reenacting my attachment wounds. I didn’t know that the rage and fear I felt were symptoms of something deeper—something old. I wasn’t healing, so I was bleeding all over the people who were trying to love me.
What changed?
Honestly? God.
When I started building my relationship with God, something cracked open in me. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to earn love—I could just receive it. That’s what changed everything. It gave me a new way to see people, but more importantly, it gave me a new way to see myself. That opened the door to therapy—to self-awareness—to too-real, gut-wrenching, soul-clearing healing.
And healing wasn’t pretty. Breakdowns were so intense they felt like Niagara Falls pouring out of my chest. But for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to feel.
Now? I’m not who I was in college anymore. But I still struggle. Especially when people don’t do what they say they will. It triggers something old in me. I used to cut people off at the first sign of disappointment. Now, I pause. I set boundaries. I ask myself: Is this something I can hold space for or something I need to step away from?
Healing didn’t erase the struggle but gave me the tools to face it. I’m still learning, still becoming.
If I could go back and talk to my college self, I’d tell her this:
You’re not responsible for what happened to you. But healing is your responsibility. Until you face your pain, you’ll keep hurting the people who want to love you.
You won’t fully understand love—or how to love yourself—until you begin to heal.
But once you do? You’ll find your power. You’ll find your purpose.
And you’ll see that everything you thought was the end of your story…
was actually the soil where something sacred would grow.
I used to be a Sour Patch Kid—sweet to the world, sour to the ones who saw me up close.
Now, I’m learning to be something better: whole. Not sugarcoated. Just real.