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The first time I heard Big Enough Mountain, I didn’t realize it would become part of my journey toward choosing myself. At first, I thought of the people I love who were struggling—my ex, my children, my ex-family, the ones I had always tried to protect, support, and love unconditionally 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.
But as time passed the meaning began to shift. 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.
Over the next few blogs, I want to explore that shift—the way this song has traveled with me through different stages of love, loss, healing and ultimately choosing myself. What started as an anthem for those I cared about slowly became something else: a song that reminded me that I too deserved to be loved fully and unconditionally-even if it just comes from me.
Big Enough Mountain is more than music to me. 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 for me meant sacrifice. It meant proving myself. It meant being enough for someone else. I am trying to learn 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.
Choosing Myself and What it Means
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 music and 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 overthink.
It was in that stretched-out stillness, somewhere between frustration and exhaustion, 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. When 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 so many moments that had left me questioning myself.
I had spent so much time assuming I was misremembering, overreacting, being unfair—but I wasn’t-not always. 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 and 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 darlin / that ain’t true.’ And just like that, everything unraveled.
For the first time in years, I allowed myself to feel it all—the grief, the exhaustion, the weight of carrying blame that was never mine to hold. 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 that I had to fight for-‘Your mind whispers “you deserve it” / and you convince yourself you do’. 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 the emotion of Joe Jordan’s voice as he belts out ‘I love you a whole, whole lot / much more than all I’ve got‘ brings another level to the emotions of choosing 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, or anyone else, believed it or not.
And the only way to fully embrace that is to make a choice—a conscious, unwavering decision towards choosing myself every single day.
Choosing Myself on My Own Terms: Redefining Love
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 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 that 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 and self-neglect.
I used to sing along to Big Enough Mountain thinking of the people that I gave 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, the love being measured is my own love for me-me choosing myself.
The Cost vs. Benefit of Love
This process of choosing myself isn’t 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 am trying to 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 also serve me? Or am I diminishing myself out of obligation, out of habit?
Balance doesn’t always feel like clarity. It often feels like checking in, over and over again, asking the same questions and sitting with the answers. It’s fluid. Messy. Yet still worth striving for.
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 the moment.
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 subtle moments. An eye roll. A sigh. A dismissive comment years ago that stuck with me. Overhearing someone ridicule something I 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. At adjusting, recalibrating, and making myself smaller before anyone even had to say the words. I 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 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 comfortable. I became so practiced in this that I didn’t even recognize I was doing it anymore—it was second nature, it was survival.
But I am beginning to push back against that instinct. I am trying to unlearning the fear that my presence is an inconvenience. I am recognizing that taking up space isn’t a selfish act—it’s a necessary one. I am trying to not take every negative reaction as confirmation that I am too much. I am trying 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. For me 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 claim space without apology—I chip away at the belief that I don’t belong. I understand that these feeling won’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-blah, blah, blah. And sometimes, it is. But just as often, I am finding that choosing myself and 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. It can disappoint people. Cause people to call you “mean” when you stop actively trying to make them feel comfortable. It can feel like resistance. And it usually pisses 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, choosing myself looks like getting up and pushing forward, even when it feels like I physically can’t. And sometimes, choosing myself is 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. It doesn’t mean I don’t care or that my love is weaker. If anything, I am finding that 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.
This is what the start of my healing looks 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. Choosing myself.
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.
Table of Contents
Additional Resources
Self-Love Is Self-Care | Psychology Today | This article delves into the concepts of self-love and self-care, offering practical steps to incorporate these practices into daily life.
The Most Neglected & Powerful Act of Self-Care | Zen Habits | Highlights the importance of self-love as a fundamental yet often neglected aspect of self-care, offering guidance on how to practice it.
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