Standing in Self-Worth: Claiming Space After Survival

Posted on April 24, 2025 By dizzythinkerComments Off

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The first time I heard Big Enough Mountain, it stopped me cold. I had heard countless songs over the years—songs that mirrored sadness, that carried me through challenges or whispered comfort during anxiety. But this one felt different-like the beginning of standing in self-worth.

It didn’t just resonate—it lingered. Unlike other songs that had faded with time or become background noise to the chaos of life, this one stayed. It carved out a space in my heart that I couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just the melody or the lyrics—it was the way it held up a mirror and gently demanded that I look. Not just at the people I loved, but at myself. At first, I thought of the people I love who were struggling—my ex, my children, the ones I had always tried to protect, carry, and anchor through every storm.

The lyrics hit me like a wave: “I see rainclouds in your eyes / I know your smile when it lies.” I knew that look. I had seen it in them so many times—the practiced calm, the silent ache. I heard those words and thought, Yes. This is my love for them. Boundless. Unshakable. Bigger than pain, stronger than doubt. In hindsight, I can see that moment was a seed—one that would grow into standing in self-worth.

But as time passed, something began to shift. The song’s message, once a familiar echo of my love for others, began to reflect something deeper. Unlike other songs or coping mechanisms I had leaned on—temporary distractions or fleeting reassurances—this one stuck. It stayed with me because it didn’t just mirror my feelings; it challenged them. It peeled back the layers and dared me to see myself through a lens that I had long avoided.

It wasn’t just another comforting tune—it became a truth I couldn’t unhear, urging me to turn that boundless love inward for the very first time in my entire life. I still heard them in those words, but I began to hear me, too. My own stubborn heart. My own smile when it lies. My own doubts that I tried to outrun, over and over again.

As this series reaches its final chapter, I wanted to reflect on that shift—one that’s been unfolding since the beginning. Each post has uncovered a layer of how I’ve experienced love, loss, and self-worth, and this one is no different. It’s the continuation of a deeper journey—one rooted in standing in self-worth, that began with loving others unconditionally and is now evolving into something more balanced, more honest, and more inclusive of myself.

In this final piece, I want to explore the way way this song has traveled with me through different stages of love, loss, and healing. What started as an anthem for those I cared about slowly became something else: a song I needed to hear for myself.

Big Enough Mountain is more than music to me. It’s become a symbol of standing in self-worth—an anchor for the emotional clarity I never knew I needed. It’s a reflection of how far I’ve come, and how much further I still have to go. It has held space for my grief, my love, and now, finally, my healing.

For so long, love meant sacrifice. It meant proving myself. It meant being enough for someone else. I didn’t know how to exist outside of that—how to love without losing pieces of myself in the process. Love felt like climbing an impossible mountain, always pushing, always trying, always believing that if I just did more, gave more, became more, then maybe I would finally feel whole.

But love was never meant to be a struggle. It was never meant to feel like something just out of reach, something I had to chase or earn. And in the end, the person I needed to prove my love to wasn’t anyone else—it was me.

The Final Shift: Choosing Myself

That snowy drive through the Rocky Mountains wasn’t just another moment of self-reflection. What should have been a routine three-hour drive from the Western Slope to Denver stretched into ten long hours, thanks to an unexpected spring snowstorm. It started as rain, light and unassuming, but as I climbed in elevation, it turned into a heavy, wet snow, blanketing the roads faster than they could be cleared.

The highway shut down in sections, mostly because of tourists who had no idea how to drive in the snow, leaving me trapped in a slow crawl with nothing but my thoughts for company. The snow clung to the windshield, heavy and relentless, each pass of the wipers clearing only a momentary glimpse of the road ahead, the visibility came and went in waves, and all I could do was inch forward and think.

It was in that stretched-out stillness, somewhere between frustration and exhaustion, that I felt a quiet unraveling. I had expected nothing more than a typical road trip—just a long day of driving, maybe some podcasts to pass the time, or even the usual mental fog that kept heavier thoughts at bay. But instead, I was met with something else entirely: a detour not of route, but of the heart.

The snowstorm outside felt like a metaphor come to life—visibility dropping, pace slowing, the world forcing me to sit with what I had been avoiding. And with each flake that clung to my windshield, each pause between mile markers, the emotional weight I’d kept buried started to surface.

The open road offered no escape that day. Only reflection. Only reckoning. It was during that space of unexpected stillness, when the rest of the world felt frozen, that a simple text exchange—something small, something innocent, just looking for clarification from a loved one— The conversation started off light, but as it unfolded, something shifted. And then the call came, the words and tone made it unmistakable—this wasn’t just a difference in recollection, it was gaslighting.

For the first time, I saw it clearly for what it was. That realization hit me like a slap, sharp and undeniable. And suddenly, I wasn’t just looking at this one moment—I was seeing a pattern. A pattern that stretched across years, across relationships, across all those moments that had left me questioning myself.

I had spent so much time assuming I was misremembering, I was overreacting, I was being unfair—It wasn’t just me—not always. But in that moment, I finally saw the truth for what it was. The weight of that truth settled over me, heavy and inescapable. And with it came a flood of memories—moments scattered throughout my life where I had been manipulated, made to question my own reality, convinced that I was the sole problem.

It was like a dam breaking, every buried moment rushing to the surface all at once. And then, as if the universe was aligning for me to finally understand, the song came on.

The verse washed over me: ‘Your heart reminds you that it’s hurting, your mind whispers “you deserve it,” and you convince yourself you do, but darling, that ain’t true.’ And just like that, everything unraveled. I didn’t deserve it. I don’d deserve it.

For the first time, quite possibly in my life, I allowed myself to feel it all—the grief, the exhaustion, the weight of carrying blame that was never mine to carry. The tears came hard, unstoppable, raw in a way I hadn’t let myself express in so long.

I had spent years believing the voice in my head that told me I deserved the pain, that I wasn’t enough, that love was something I had to fight for. But in that moment, with the snow piling up around me and nowhere to go but forward, I let those words sink in. Darling, that ain’t true.

And it changed everything. It was the moment I realized I was tired of waiting for love to be given back to me. I had to be the one to give it. To myself.

The song says, “You think you’re not worth my love, I’ll show you time and time again that I love you.” And when those words hit, they don’t just land gently—they erupt with raw emotion. Joe’s voice cracks with truth, each repetition of “I love you” delivered not with subtlety, but with aching, guttural force.

You can hear the desperation and conviction woven together—the kind of love that demands to be believed, even when it hurts to hear. That passion made it impossible to ignore. It echoed every moment I had tried to prove my love to others, and now, it was demanding I offer that same conviction to myself.

For so long, I thought about my ex when I heard that. My kids. The people I loved. But now, I hear those words and they belong to me. They are the words I need to tell myself. They are the reminder that I do not need to earn love. I do not need to prove my worth. I have always been worthy, whether I believed it or not.

And the only way to fully embrace that is to make a choice—a conscious, unwavering decision to choose myself this time. And that choice, perhaps for the first time, was an act of standing in self-worth.

Redefining Love on My Own Terms

For years, I believed love was limitless, but I never once thought to include myself in that equation.

Choosing myself doesn’t mean I stop caring for others. It means learning to care for myself, too—even when it’s uncomfortable or unfamiliar.

Just last week, I said no to something that would have drained me, something I would’ve automatically said yes to in the past. I sat with the guilt, the fear of being seen as selfish, and I chose myself anyway.

It didn’t feel easy, but it felt necessary. That’s the shift. That’s the growth. It doesn’t mean my love is conditional now, or that I’ve lost the ability to be generous, to support, to nurture. It simply means I’ve made room for myself in a way I never have before.

This kind of self-inclusion is not about centering every decision around myself. It’s about giving myself permission to take up space in the conversation. To ask, What do I want? How will this affect me? Even just asking those questions is a radical act after years of silence.

I used to sing along to Big Enough Mountain thinking of the people I would give everything for. But now, I realize that this love—the kind that reaches beyond words, beyond numbers, beyond measure—is something I deserve, too.

There ain’t a big enough mountain for my love to go stand by. And for the first time, that love is for me.

The Cost vs. Benefit of Love

This process of choosing myself is not always easy, nor is it always linear. Some days, I make decisions that put me first. Other days, I slip into old habits. The difference now is that I am beginning to recognize it.

I no longer immediately frame these moments as failures. I see them for what they are—years of conditioning, old reflexes that still hold weight. But instead of punishing myself for them, I pause and ask a simple question: Why am I doing this?

Is it for me? For someone else? Is it coming from a place of love, or a place of fear? And if I choose to put someone else first, does it serve me, too? Or am I diminishing myself out of obligation, out of habit?

Balance doesn’t always feel like clarity. It’s a lesson I’ve been learning throughout this entire series—through the conflict, the reflection, the discomfort. In earlier posts, it felt like I was just trying to find my footing, trying to name what felt off.

Now, I realize balance doesn’t come from getting it right every time. It comes from checking in—consistently, gently—and choosing with intention, even when it’s hard. Sometimes that means asking the same questions and sitting with uncomfortable answers. It’s fluid. Messy. Imperfect. And still, it’s part of what standing in self-worth looks like for me. And even when I lose my balance, returning to that ground is how I’ll keep standing in self-worth.

This is what balance looks like for me—not a rigid set of rules, but a constant, intentional evaluation of what is best for me in any given moment. It’s a practice rooted in standing in self-worth, not perfection.

Unlearning the Fear of Being a Burden

For much of my life, I have operated under the belief that my wants and needs were burdensome. That what I asked for was “too much.” But where did that belief come from?

It wasn’t just outright rejection—it was smaller, more insidious moments. An eye roll. A sigh. A dismissive comment years ago that stuck with me. Overhearing someone ridicule something I deeply related to. Noticing the shift in someone’s tone when I expressed excitement about something I loved. These things compounded over time, convincing me to shrink, to quiet my desires, to make myself more palatable.

I became an expert at reading between the lines—an instinct born from survival, not choice. It was a behavior honed over years of learning to anticipate discomfort, to adjust before anyone asked me to, and to interpret silence as rejection.

But now, I see that skill for what it is: a learned pattern rooted in the fear of being unwanted, unworthy, or too much. And part of healing my self-worth means actively unlearning that reflex. It means reminding myself that I don’t have to earn space by shrinking first.

I can simply be—and that is enough. For years, I adjusted, recalibrated, and made myself smaller before anyone even had to say the words. I would overanalyze a pause in conversation, a glance away, the slightest hint of discomfort.

I learned to anticipate rejection before it arrived, cutting myself off before someone else had the chance to do it for me. I absorbed the unspoken message: my needs were negotiable, my presence conditional, and the safest way to continue to exist was to take up as little space as possible.

And I did. I edited myself in real time. I swallowed words before they left my lips, softened my edges, folded myself into the shape that made others most comfortable.

I became so practiced in this that I didn’t even recognize I was doing it anymore—it felt like second nature, like survival. What made it even harder was that those closest to me—my support system—saw this.

They saw me shrink, bend, overextend. And they didn’t challenge it. Whether out of comfort, benefit, or simply not knowing how, they allowed it. That silence became another layer of validation that this was who I needed to be to stay loved.

But I am beginning to push back against that instinct. I am unlearning the fear that my presence is an inconvenience—and that standing in self-worth means honoring my space, even when it feels unfamiliar. I am recognizing that taking up space isn’t a selfish act—it’s a necessary one.

I try to remind myself that negative reactions are not confirmation that I am too much. I try to remind myself that choosing myself does not mean I am taking from someone else—it means I am finally making room for my own existence. And that, in itself, is enough.

Learning to Take Up Space

Taking up space doesn’t come naturally. It feels awkward. Foreign. Exposed. Like speaking up in a room where no one was expecting you to have a voice, unsure if anyone will listen or if you even have the right to be heard. But that doesn’t make it wrong.

Every time I say what I need, even when my voice shakes—every time I advocate for my own needs the same way I do for others—I think back to those earlier moments in this journey. Like the drive through the storm when clarity first cracked through. Like the realization that my love had value, even when it wasn’t returned.

These moments built the foundation that allows me now to speak, even when it’s hard. Every time I claim space without apology—I chip away at the belief that I don’t belong. The feeling doesn’t disappear overnight, but the more I do it, the more I realize that I was never meant to be invisible.

I’m learning to sit with discomfort instead of rushing to fix it. To resist the urge to shrink when I feel like I’m taking up too much room. To trust that if something matters to me, it’s worth voicing. And that even if it’s not met with immediate understanding or support, it doesn’t invalidate the truth of what I feel. I don’t have to convince anyone else for it to be real.

This is not about shouting louder. It’s about not disappearing. It’s about allowing myself to fully exist, without waiting for an invitation or permission.

Self-Love Isn’t Always Soft

We often talk about self-love as a warm, gentle thing—soft lighting, deep breaths, kind affirmations. And sometimes, it is. But just as often, self-love is uncomfortable. It’s holding boundaries when you’re terrified of losing someone. It’s sitting in silence with guilt and not rushing to appease it.

Self-love can be inconvenient. Just last month, I turned down an invitation—something I would have dragged myself to in the past, no matter how drained or emotionally unwell I felt. I knew it would be easier to say yes, to avoid the questions or disappointment, but I also knew I needed the space to rest and recalibrate.

I spent the day quietly with myself, resisting the guilt and choosing not to explain it away. It wasn’t a grand act, but it was a hard choice—a moment where I chose my well-being over someone else that I love. That, too, is self-love. It can disappoint people. It can feel like resistance. It can piss others off. But the truth is: it’s not about always feeling good. It’s about feeling true.

Some days, choosing myself looks like rest. Other days, it looks like getting up and pushing forward, even when it feels like I physically can’t. And sometimes, it’s just allowing myself to not have the answer yet—and trusting that clarity will come.

The Power of Standing Still

Choosing myself doesn’t mean I love others any less. In fact, it’s a truth that’s echoed throughout this entire Big Enough Mountain series. From confronting gaslighting to reclaiming my sense of worth, each step has brought me closer to understanding that my love can include me without excluding anyone else.

It doesn’t mean I don’t care or that my love is weaker. If anything, it means my love is stronger—because it is no longer built on depletion and self-sacrifice.

It is built on balance.

On knowing my worth.

On standing in that love, instead of constantly giving it away without leaving any for myself.

After everything, this is what standing in self-worth and healing is finally starting to look like for me. Not just surviving, not just existing, but trying to thrive. Choosing to see myself as enough. Choosing to show up for myself the way I have always shown up for others. Choosing to stand, unwavering, on the mountain of my own love—fully rooted in standing in self-worth.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for today.

Featured Song

“Big Enough Mountain” by Joe Jordan ▶️ Listen on Apple Music
Music Speaks, where Words Fail – for me at least. Music has always been more than just sound to me—it’s been a language when words fail, a refuge when the world feels too loud, and a mirror reflecting the emotions I struggle to express.

Music has this unique ability to validate feelings I didn’t even realize I had, making sense of the chaos in my mind. I use music as a form of connection—to myself, to my experiences, and to others. Whether it’s finding solace in lyrics that speak the unspoken or using a melody to ground myself in the present, music is woven into every part of my journey and is the one constant that has been there all along the way.

It’s not just background noise; it’s a guide, a coping mechanism, and, sometimes, the only thing that makes sense when nothing else does.

Additional Resources

Understanding Emotional Clarity | National Library of Medicine | This article explores the concept of emotional clarity, detailing its two key components: source awareness and type awareness. It provides a comprehensive overview of how individuals can identify and understand their emotions.

Emotional Clarity and Its Impact on Mental Health | PsyPost | This study examines how emotional clarity influences emotion regulation and its implications for mental health.

April 10: Healing Self-Worth-The Ware Between Heart and Mind – Challenging the lies we’ve believed about ourselves and learning to rewrite the story with truth and compassion.

April 04: No Mountain Big Enough – Choosing Myself in the End – Learning to stand in my own love and finally take up space.

March 28: The Invisible Weight We Carry – The unseen burdens we hold and the toll of emotional burnout.

March 21: The Echoes of Gaslighting and Self-Trust – How manipulation slowly erodes confidence in your perception.

March 14: Letting Go of Blame and Finding Peace – The heart of Dizzy Thinking and learning to release what we can’t control.

March 6: A Quiet Defiance – Choosing to stay when everything says leave.