The Past
I was in my early twenties, adrift and yearning for something substantial to anchor myself to. My days felt formless, a series of muted shades, and I desperately sought vibrant color. That’s when I first encountered Halden. He ran a small, artisanal pottery studio in a quiet suburban neighborhood, a place filled with the warm scent of clay and the soft hum of the wheel. He wasn't overtly charismatic, but there was a calm, steady kindness about him. He had a way of looking at people, a gentle, almost paternal gaze, that made you feel seen. He’d occasionally offer me a simple, encouraging word when I visited his gallery, admiring his work. "You have an artist's eye, Elara," he once said, noticing how long I studied a particular piece. Just that. A fleeting moment.
But for me, it was a lifeline. I clung to it. He became the beacon in my fog-bound existence. I started imagining entire conversations, elaborate scenarios where he saw my potential, understood my deepest longings. His casual “Good morning, dear” became a secret language, his brief nod of acknowledgment a profound connection. It wasn't about him, not really. It was about what he represented: validation, a sense of belonging, a strength I deeply lacked. I poured every ounce of my unmet emotional needs into this elaborate fantasy, molding it like his clay until it was solid, tangible, and completely, utterly false. My days revolved around the chance of seeing him, of crafting the perfect piece of conversation, of catching his eye. It was an obsession. I knew it was strange, but I couldn't stop. It felt too good, too real.
Then his birth anniversary approached. I saw it as my grand opportunity, a chance to show him how much I appreciated… everything. I was a talented baker, and I decided to make him a special box of cookies, a collection of his favorite flavors I'd somehow divined through my intense observations. I spent days planning, researching recipes, pouring my heart into every detail. This wasn’t just a gift; it was an offering. My entire self-worth, my perceived value, was baked into those delicate morsels. If he loved them, it meant I was worthy. If he didn't… well, that thought was too terrifying to entertain.
The Turning Point
The day arrived, a frantic blur of flour and sugar. The first batch of shortbread turned out misshapen, crumbly. The second, a spiced ginger, lacked the intended warmth. Panic set in. My hands trembled. How could I offer him anything less than perfection? It was an insult. A betrayal of my own feelings. I couldn't. I just couldn't. With tears blurring my vision, I hastily packed the few acceptable cookies, but even they felt inadequate. I drove to the studio, the box heavy on the passenger seat, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I sat in my car, staring at the warm glow emanating from his window, paralyzed by a crushing wave of shame. I was late. The cookies weren’t perfect. He would see right through me, see my foolishness, my desperation. He would know. The weight of it was suffocating.
I couldn’t face him. Utterly undone, I put the car in reverse and sped away, the imperfect box of cookies still beside me. I drove aimlessly, the sun setting, casting long, mournful shadows. I pulled into a deserted overlook, the vast, empty expanse mirroring the void in my chest. Tears streamed down my face, hot and stinging. The disappointment wasn’t just about the cookies; it was about the crumbling of my entire fabricated world. In that moment, the pain was so profound, so utterly consuming, that I just wanted to disappear. To cease to exist. The thought was a desperate, primal scream from a soul that had lost its way, an ugly testament to how completely I had outsourced my self-worth to an imagined connection. It was terrifying. I knew, with a chilling clarity, that this wasn’t normal. This wasn't healthy. I was lost. Completely lost. I reached for a familiar escape, anything to numb the edges of the overwhelming feelings, but even that offered no real solace. It was then, in that desolate space, that I knew something had to fundamentally change.
Looking Back Now
That night was a brutal awakening. It took time, immense effort, and the gentle insistence of a dear friend, Liora, to pull myself out of that emotional abyss. The first step was acknowledging the truth: Halden was just a man. A kind man, yes, but a stranger. My feelings, my elaborate fantasies, were projections. They were reflections of my own deep-seated needs for validation, for a sense of purpose, for someone to see and cherish the person I desperately wanted to be. It wasn’t about him; it was about me. Every imagined conversation, every perceived nuance, was a desperate cry from a part of me that felt invisible.
Healing wasn't linear. There were days I still yearned for the comfort of that fantasy, for the imagined certainty it provided. But with each small step, I learned to look inward. I started to understand that my worth wasn't contingent on someone else's approval, especially not the imagined approval of a person I barely knew. I began to discover my own strengths, my own voice. I started creating art again, not for anyone else, but for the sheer joy of it. The shame of that intense, misguided fixation still surfaces sometimes, a quiet echo, but it's no longer consuming. It's a reminder of how far I've come, of the profound emptiness I once felt, and the self-compassion I've slowly cultivated.
The Lesson
This experience taught me a profound truth: the most dangerous prisons are the ones we build for ourselves, especially when we use others as the bricks. It’s so easy to project our unmet needs, our deepest desires, onto someone else, turning them into an idealized figure who holds the key to our happiness. But that key was always within. True fulfillment comes not from external validation, but from the painstaking, sometimes messy, work of self-discovery and self-acceptance. Don't let your self-worth be dictated by external forces, real or imagined. Build your foundations from within. Your value is inherent. It just is.
Pay attention to where you seek your sense of worth. If it’s always outside yourself, clinging to a person, a job, or an imagined reality, it’s time to re-evaluate. Turn that gaze inward. Invest in yourself. Build the life you want, not the fantasy you yearn for.