As the year winds down and everyone starts scrambling to pretend they’ve been enlightened since January, I’ve been sitting with a truth that didn’t show up gently. No angel numbers, no soft epiphanies, no “the universe whispered this to me.” Nope. This lesson hit like the kind of realization that wakes you from a sound sleep at 2 a.m.—loud, uninvited, and exposing everything I thought I had under control.

This year taught me the difference between people who love me and people who love the idea of me, and let me be the first to tell you, the gap between those two is a canyon.

You know the ones who love the idea of you. They adore your highlight reel. They hype the version of you that’s shiny, impressive, emotionally convenient. They want the funny you, the supportive you, the charismatic you, the achiever you. They want access to your energy, your creativity, your confidence, your presence… but not the responsibility of actually knowing you.

The moment you become even remotely human — tired, overwhelmed, busy, boundary-having, or simply not performing, they suddenly don’t know where to place you. It’s like you broke a contract they never told you existed. You stop being their favorite character in their imaginary little story. And instead of adjusting, they resent you for not staying on script.

This year, I watched people pull back when I stopped overgiving. I watched others fizzle out when I stopped playing therapist. I watched some get “confused” when my boundaries went into action. And at first, I internalized it. Was I changing too much? Was I becoming distant? Hard to love?

Then the truth hit me:
They never loved me. They loved the version of me that made their life easier.

Meanwhile, the people who actually love me didn’t flinch. They didn’t need the performance. They didn’t require the constant sparkle. They stayed when I was quiet. They checked in when I fell off the grid. They held space when I wasn’t at my best, wasn’t witty, wasn’t polished, wasn’t anything except human.

That was the difference. And it was loud.

The people who genuinely love you don’t treat your boundaries like an annoyance or betrayal. They don’t need you to be “on” to be worthy. They don’t wilt because you’re not in a constant state of emotional service. They hold you in your depth, not just your aesthetic.

So as the year closes, here’s the plot twist I’m taking with me: I’m done auditioning. Done being the version of myself that cushions other people’s comfort. Done participating in relationships where I’m only allowed to exist in two dimensions.

Next year, I want to be loved in 3D: complicated, evolving, occasionally exhausted, gloriously unfinished, deeply real.