My worst version wasn't the one that failed, but the one that stopped trying.
It was the one that, after my then-partner found out I couldn't have children and left me, fell apart. Then came the blows at work, to my self-esteem, and in my relationships—all of which brought out the worst version of myself.
From that moment on, I decided the world owed me something. Cynicism and emotional laziness took root in me. It was a version that woke up and the first thing it did was look for a reason to be angry: traffic, the weather, an unanswered message, other people's happiness, or the sound of birds. My energy was a magnet for the negative.
That version of me had a special talent for self-pity. I built a narrative where I was the victim of a universal conspiracy. Instead of asking for help, I pushed others away with cold silences or sharp replies. I justified my bad mood by saying, "That's just how I am," as if character were a permanent tattoo and not a muscle that can be trained.
The turning point came when I realized I didn't like that person. Not just because he was bitter, but because he was cowardly, unhappy, and grumpy. I used negativity as a shield to avoid taking risks. If I didn't try anything new, I couldn't fail. If I criticized before being criticized, I stayed in control. It was a false sense of power that, in reality, made me small.
The worst part of that version wasn't the damage it did to me, but the damage it did to the people who loved me. I remember the look of exhaustion on my mother's face, who no longer knew how to pull me out of that hole, or my siblings' words, who time and again advised me and invited me to change my way of living. And the day a friend, after one of my endless complaints, said to me: "So what are you going to do about it?" I fell silent. I had no answer.
Now I understand that that version was a response to fear. Fear of not being enough, of being overshadowed by others' success. But true failure isn't falling—it's staying on the floor staring at the ceiling.
That's not me. I am the one who gets back up, who chooses to rewrite the narrative, who apologizes when he boils over and makes mistakes. The worst version taught me that darkness isn't fought with more darkness, but with the humble act of turning on a light, even if it's a small one.
Today, when I feel that version creeping in, I recognize it and say: Thanks for the lesson, but I'm the one holding the remote.
Note: The images are my own.
I used the DeepL Translate translator.
