I Know Exactly What to Say — Until It’s My Turn

There’s a version of me that is very calm.

She sits across from people and makes chaos feel organized. She listens carefully. She nods at the right moments. She untangles thoughts like delicate jewelry that’s been knotted for years. She knows how to slow breathing. She knows how to find perspective. She knows how to say, “You’re okay. This isn’t as catastrophic as it feels.”

She is steady.

And then there’s the version of me that shows up when it’s my own heart on the line.

She refreshes her phone.
She rereads messages.
She dissects tone.
She fills in silence with worst-case scenarios.
She decides she’s too much. Or not enough. Or about to be left.

She forgets everything.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly wisdom evaporates when emotion gets involved.

I can help someone else understand that anxiety lies.
But when my chest tightens, I believe every word it says.

I can remind someone else that they don’t need to chase what’s meant for them.
But when I feel distance, I want to close the gap immediately.

I can tell someone else that their worth isn’t determined by someone’s response.
But when I’m waiting, it suddenly feels like it is.

It’s easy to be rational when you’re not the one afraid of losing something.

That’s the part no one talks about.

Advice is clearest from the outside of the fire.

When I’m helping someone else, I’m not burning. I’m observing. My nervous system is calm. I can see the full picture because I’m not fighting for emotional survival.

When it’s me, my body reacts first. Old memories wake up. Attachment gets loud. The part of me that learned to anticipate loss tries to get ahead of it. It doesn’t care about degrees or experience or how many times I’ve said, “Pause. Breathe. You’re safe.”

It just wants control.

And fear is convincing.

There is something humbling about realizing that self-awareness doesn’t equal self-mastery.

You can understand your patterns and still fall into them.
You can know your triggers and still be triggered.
You can give incredible advice and still struggle to follow it when it matters most.

That doesn’t make you a hypocrite.

It makes you emotionally invested.

I am so compassionate with other people. Almost endlessly. I can sit with their insecurity without judgment. I can validate their fear without shaming it. I can see their humanity clearly.

But sometimes, when it’s me, I switch to urgency.

Fix it.
Figure it out.
Don’t mess this up.
Do something before it’s too late.

And the tone in my own head is nothing like the tone I use with others.

That’s the real work for me.

Not becoming wiser. I’m already wise.

Becoming gentler.

Because maybe the goal isn’t to flawlessly take my own advice.

Maybe it’s to notice when I’m spiraling and choose not to abandon myself in it.

Maybe it’s to sit beside the anxious version of me the same way I sit beside everyone else — without rushing her, without shaming her, without trying to silence her immediately.

Maybe it’s to admit that I am brave when I’m guiding others… but vulnerable when I’m guiding myself.

And vulnerability feels different than competence.

If you are the strong one in your friend group.
If you’re the one people call when they’re falling apart.
If you can see clearly for everyone else but go blurry in your own life.

You’re not fake.

You’re not “bad at practicing what you preach.”

You’re just inside your own fire.

And it’s harder to read the map when you’re the one walking through the smoke.

Maybe the most honest thing we can say is this:

I know what to do.
I just get scared when it’s my turn.

And maybe that’s something we can hold with a little more compassion.