This Version of Me Is Allowed to Be Loved

This version of me is not a mistake.

I have always struggled with this idea of worthiness.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried around an image of the man I thought I needed to become to finally deserve love.

The version of me who wakes up early without effort.

Who meditates every day, speaks gently, and never stumbles over words.

The version who’s confident, regulated, endlessly productive, and perfectly composed.

That version, I’ve told myself, is the one who deserves love.

But then there’s this version.

The man I am most days.
The one who cries sometimes without knowing why.

Who procrastinates. Who spirals into self‑doubt.

Who forgets to drink enough water, who still gets triggered, who feels messy, tired, and uncertain.

This version of me has often felt like a draft, like I’m still rehearsing, still in the middle of becoming, still not quite ready to be fully seen.

But lately I’ve been asking myself:

What if this version, right now, as I am, is already worthy?
What if love isn’t some prize waiting on the other side of perfection?
What if it’s not something I have to earn through healing?

What if it’s something I’m allowed to receive right here, in the thick of my becoming?

I was taught, often without anyone meaning to, that love was conditional.

I learned which parts of me earned approval and which ones made people pull away.

I learned to smile when I felt sad. To hide anger. To shape myself into whatever felt safest for others.

And because of that, I’ve spent years in a loop of self‑improvement.

Not because growth is wrong, but because some part of me believed I had to be better in order to be lovable.

But I’m beginning to see the truth:

Love, real love, isn’t earned. It’s received.

And it doesn’t wait for me to have my act together.

It doesn’t wait for me to stop making mistakes.
It shows up in the mess, whispering: You don’t need to hide.

Not everyone will love me here. That’s true.

Some people only know how to love the curated, polished version of things.

That’s not my fault.
That’s not my failure.
That’s their limitation.

But the love that’s real?

It sees me in my contradictions.
In my wobbles, my grief, my awkward pauses and laughter.

It stays.

Because love doesn’t need me to be whole to hold me.

It can sit with me in the middle.
It can walk beside me through the questions.
It can witness my doubt without flinching.

Before anyone else can offer me that, I have to believe, deep down, that I’m allowed to be loved as I am.

Not later.
Not after I’ve healed every wound.
Not after I’ve stopped overthinking.

Now.

As is.

This isn’t an argument against growth; I want to grow. I want to break old patterns, cultivate healthier habits, and strive to become the person I can be.

I can’t confuse growth with worth.
I am not becoming lovable.

I already am.

So I’m learning to let myself be held while I’m still healing.

To let myself be seen before I’ve figured it all out.
To let myself be chosen without performance.

That kind of love is possible, but I have to stop hiding long enough to receive it.

It starts with softening.

Softening the voice in my head that says I need to be better, faster, calmer. Softening the impulse to apologise for my needs. Softening the belief that I’m only lovable when I’m easy.

And it continues with acceptance.

Not passive resignation, but a deep, grounded knowing:

This version of me is not a mistake. This season, with all its tension and transition, is not a detour.

The messy middle is not a disqualification.

It’s part of my becoming. And it’s okay to be loved here.

Not everyone will be able to hold me, but the ones who can, the ones who meet me where I am, without asking me to edit myself, those who love me are worth waiting for.

And so is the love I’m learning to offer myself.

I can be the first to say:
I love this version of me.

Not because he’s perfect, but because he’s honest. Because he’s trying. Because he keeps showing up, even when he’s scared.

I don’t have to earn my affection.
I don’t have to fix myself to be worthy.
I can decide, today, that I am already enough.

That I don’t have to keep striving to deserve what I needed all along: softness, patience, safety, connection, presence.

So I exhale.

I put down the pressure.
I let myself be fully seen.

Because this version of me, this imperfect, searching, human version, he is allowed to be loved.

Now.
Just as he is!