Knowing better wasn’t free. It cost time, energy, and versions of myself that believed things would change if I just stayed patient enough. It didn’t come from insight alone. It came from experience that asked something of me every time I ignored what I already sensed.
I didn’t wake up one day suddenly wiser. I accumulated knowledge slowly, through moments where I overrode my intuition to preserve connection. Through situations where I explained my needs carefully, only to watch them remain unmet. Through staying long enough to see that effort, when it isn’t matched, becomes erosion.
Knowing better required me to sit with discomfort instead of bypassing it. To admit when hope had turned into habit. To recognize when I was investing in potential instead of reality. That recognition wasn’t empowering at first. It was sobering.
There’s a misconception that awareness feels like relief. Sometimes it does. Other times it feels like loss. Loss of illusions that once made things easier to endure. Loss of plausible deniability. Loss of the comfort that comes with not fully seeing what’s happening.
Knowing better meant I could no longer claim confusion. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t notice the imbalance. I couldn’t keep framing inconsistency as temporary. Awareness removed the option to stay without accountability. And that accountability was heavy.
The cost wasn’t just emotional. It was relational. Knowing better meant some dynamics could no longer continue as they were. Conversations felt different. Silence meant more. Distance became necessary instead of optional. I didn’t become cold. I became clear.
I also had to accept my role in what I tolerated. Not with blame, but with honesty. Knowing better meant acknowledging where I stayed because leaving felt harder than enduring. Where I accepted less because it felt familiar. That honesty didn’t feel kind, but it was respectful.
This kind of awareness doesn’t inflate your ego. It humbles you. It shows you how much you were willing to give before you learned how to protect yourself. It makes you quieter, not louder. More selective, not more demanding.
Knowing better wasn’t free because it asked me to grieve what I once hoped for. It asked me to release attachments that were built on effort instead of reciprocity. It asked me to let go of stories that made staying feel noble.
I didn’t gain awareness without losing something. I lost the ability to romanticize inconsistency. I lost patience for half-effort framed as intention. I lost interest in dynamics that required me to keep shrinking to stay connected.
But I gained something too. I gained self-trust. The kind that doesn’t require constant reassurance. The kind that knows when enough information has been gathered. The kind that doesn’t need validation to move on.
Knowing better wasn’t free, but it was honest. It replaced comfort with clarity. And while clarity doesn’t always feel good, it does feel solid. It holds.
I don’t wish I had known sooner. I learned when I was ready to accept the cost. Because once you know better, you’re responsible for what you do with that knowledge.
And that responsibility, while heavy, is also where your power returns.
Final Thought
Awareness has a cost.
But clarity is steadier than comfort.
And steady lasts.
Disclaimer
I Know My Worth (Unfortunately) reflects personal reflection and lived experience. It’s not professional advice or a substitute for therapy or clinical guidance. Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t.
