Over the holidays, I went inward and did a lot of reflecting on the past decade of my life. I feel like I have been going through a massive rebirth over the last couple of years and have arrived at the clarity stage in the rebirthing process. I am seeing everything so clearly; the pain of my past is at the surface, being asked to be looked at with a new perspective, a more compassionate perspective. The direction of my business is changing, and I will be shifting my focus to healing and relationships.

I have spent the last 10 years healing a disorganized attachment style and the trauma that caused it, and I am now ready to take people on a healing journey to develop more security in their attachment style.

I wanted to share my story about my healing journey. It has been 10 long years, and honestly, it has been the hardest 10 years of my life. I set a day aside over my holidays to reflect on my childhood and the last 10 years of processing it. I sat in front of my computer, and it all started to flow through my fingertips. I shed a lot of tears and poured my heart into this piece of writing.

This is a long read because it would be impossible to tell a 10-year story without giving it the time and attention it deserves. For those of you who choose to read this story to the end, thank you for offering me your presence.

My story

​I’ve always been a seeker—adventurous at heart with a curious soul. I’ve spent most of my adult life searching for a peace I could never entirely hold onto. Growing up in a chaotic household, life was unpredictable. I learned early on that love could nurture me one moment and hurt me the next, leaving me confused and unsure of where I stood with others—or even with myself.

In my adult relationships, my wounds played out in painful ways. I struggled to trust others, always suspicious and hypervigilant to any sign that I might be hurt or abandoned. Deep down, I believed that no one was there for me. To protect myself from that pain, I built armour. I told myself, “I didn’t need anyone.” I embraced a lone wolf mentality most of my life. I became too comfortable with being alone. My overdeveloped independence became my shield, but it also became my prison. I wanted love, but I was too afraid of being hurt by it again.

At 30, I found myself sitting in a therapist’s office, my heart heavy with the weight of relationships that had fallen apart, friendships that felt distant, and a constant ache that something inside me was broken. Relationships have always been a struggle; full of contradictions. I craved intimacy but pushed it away when it came too close. I wanted connection but feared the pain of losing it. I had spent years unravelling the mysteries of my emotions, but it wasn’t until a particularly painful breakup that I stumbled upon the concept of disorganized attachment. That push-pull I felt in every relationship, the craving for intimacy mixed with the terror of it—it all made sense. Naming it felt like both a relief and a challenge: if this was my story, could I rewrite it?

My therapist met me with warmth and compassion. “Healing this will take time,” she said gently. She could see how much pain I was in and how lost I felt. I remember her saying, “Disorganized attachment comes from confusion in childhood, but as an adult, you have the power to create clarity.” She wasn’t wrong; I spent the next 10 years in and out of therapy with several different practitioners, each one offering me a piece of clarity to my healing puzzle.

My journey began with trying to understand my emotions, even when they felt too big to handle or unsure of what I felt. Journaling became my lifeline. Late at night, when the world was still, I’d pour my fears, memories, and longings onto the page. As I wrote, I noticed patterns—how I’d shut down when someone got too close or lash out when I felt the faintest hint of rejection. For the first time, I saw these moments not as failures but as wounds crying out for attention.

Therapy helped me go deeper. It guided me through the memories I had spent a lifetime trying to avoid. One session, I found myself reliving a moment from childhood—hiding in my bedroom during one of my parents’ fights, my small body frozen in fear, my mind trying to make sense of the chaos. “What would you say to that little boy now?” she asked me.

I closed my eyes, tears slipping down my cheeks.

“I’d tell him he’s safe now. That he’s not alone.”

Saying those words felt like a revelation. For so long, I had been waiting for someone else to provide that safety, that reassurance. But now I understood that it was something I could give to myself.

One breakthrough came when sitting quietly alongside the river, I was flooded with a memory—a moment of calm from my childhood. My mom held me close, singing “You are my sunshine” softly to me as I drifted to sleep. The memory brought tears, not just for what I had missed but for the realization that love had existed, even if it wasn’t always consistent. That moment helped me see that the inconsistency I experienced as a child had taken root in me, making my inner world just as chaotic. Healing wasn’t just about fixing my relationships with others; it was about healing my relationship with myself.

Practicing vulnerability was another hurdle. For years, I had built walls around my heart, convinced that if I let people see the real me, they’d leave. But I started small. One night, I told a close friend, “Sometimes, I push people away because I’m scared they’ll leave me first.” She hugged me and said, “You’re not alone in feeling that way.” I remember the relief I felt, and it gave me inspiration to start sharing more of my relationship fears.

Over time, I noticed subtle changes. I didn’t spiral when someone cancelled plans. I stopped replaying conversations in my head, picking apart every word to see if I had said the wrong thing. When discomfort bubbled up, I didn’t run from it—I sat with it, named it, and reminded myself that I could handle it.

Today, I still have moments when the old patterns creep back in, when fear whispers that it’s safer to stay guarded, to stay disconnected. But I remind myself that I’ve spent ten years walking this path, and I’m not the same person I was when I started. I trust myself more. I believe in my abilities. I know that I am capable and strong. And most importantly, I know that I am enough—just as I am.

A big part of my healing was learning to have a relationship with the parts of me that felt abandoned. I acknowledged the protector parts of me—the ones that said, “I don’t need anyone,” and “I’m better off alone.” These parts had served me well in the past, shielding me from rejection and heartbreak. But I realized they were also blocking me from experiencing the love I so deeply desired. I began to thank these parts for protecting me, and I asked them to trust me enough to let love in.

One of the most profound shifts came when I stopped blaming others for not showing up for me. I began taking responsibility for the ways I hadn’t let love in, for the ways I had pushed people away because I was afraid of being hurt. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary.

 

I asked myself hard questions…

“What parts of myself am I protecting?”

“What scares me most about love?”

“What do I desire most when it comes to love?”​

One of the hardest parts of my healing journey was addressing the belief that I was unlovable. I had to sit with the parts of myself I didn’t want anyone to see—the insecure, scared, and helpless parts. I got curious, “Why do I believe I’m unlovable?”. It was when I was able to go beyond my protector parts and access my deeply wounded inner child that I was able to release my trauma, and healing started to take place.

I realized my protectors needed love and appreciation before they would let down their guard. Instead of pushing those parts away, I began to have a relationship with them. I thanked them for protecting me, but I also asked them to trust me. I told them it was okay to let love in, to let connection happen, even if it came with risk. I was now capable of having my own back.

I began to rewrite my story about love. Instead of focusing on heartbreak or rejection, I started focusing on expressions of love—kindness, compassion, forgiveness, and acceptance. I thought about the people who had shown me love and allowed myself to feel what that love felt like in my body. I let myself sit with the longing to feel loved, no longer numbing it or pushing it away. And for the first time, I started to believe I was worthy of love.

I had to learn how to receive love. For so long, I convinced myself that love wasn’t safe, that it would only lead to pain. But as I practiced mindfulness and self-soothing techniques, I started to feel what it was like to let love in—I allowed myself to feel gratitude for that love. Gratitude, for me, is the birthplace of receiving. It opened me up to the possibility of connection.

There are setbacks, of course. Times when fear creeps back in, when the old patterns whisper…

“You’re not enough.”

“You’re going to get hurt.”

But I have tools now.

I practice breathing to calm my nervous system. I find stillness daily where I can meet my whole self. I challenge fear-based thoughts and set boundaries with my inner critic, who tells me I am incapable or strong enough. When I feel overwhelmed, I remind myself that fear and love cannot exist at the same time.

Each time, I try to choose love.

I am rewriting my core beliefs about love.

Love isn’t something I have to earn.

It isn’t about being perfect or never getting hurt.

Love is about courage.

It is about showing up, even when I feel vulnerable.

It is about softening my armour, trusting myself, and allowing connection to happen—even with the risk of disconnection or heartbreak.
​

Today

I can see how far I’ve come. The wounds of my childhood don’t define me anymore, though their scars remain. I’ve learned to trust myself, to believe in my strength and my ability to navigate relationships with courage and vulnerability. I’m still working on it—on being vulnerable, on asking for connection, on softening my hypervigilance. But now, I know I’m capable of the love I once feared.

Healing disorganized attachment has been the hardest inner work of my life. It has tested me to my core, and there were many times I wanted to give up, but I kept going. I am just now, at 39 years old, getting to taste what it’s like to live and love freely with an open heart.

If you would like to learn more about your attachment style, you can take the quiz I created to help you determine your attachment style.

If you’re ready to step into your power and thrive in being a feeler you can register for one of my upcoming offerings below.

 

 

Lift your cheekbones,

Matt