For a long time, I thought my low self-confidence was just the truth.
Like gravity. Like taxes. Like baldness. Just... there.
But what I didn’t see — not for years — was that I was the one feeding it, keeping it alive. You know, like that plant from Little Shop of Horrors.
Nobody sat me down and said, "Hey, Brian, here’s your official list of F**k Ups and Flaws. Please review and sign at the bottom."
No, I built that list myself, memory by memory.
And I didn’t build it out of every experience I ever had. I built it out of the ones that hurt the most. The ones where I messed up. The ones where I got criticized or embarrassed. The ones where I didn’t know the answer and everybody else seemed to.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I kept reaching for those same few memories like they were the only ones that mattered.
I kept putting them in the front window of my mind and saying,
"See? This is who you are."
And if you do that long enough, you start to believe it. Not because it’s true. But because it’s familiar.
Now, if you’re living with AuDHD like I am, this tendency can be an even bigger booger.
All-or-nothing thinking has a way of turning one bad moment into the whole story. Poor mental flexibility makes it feel almost impossible to loosen our grip on the old pain, even when we know it’s hurting us. Instead of "I had a bad day," our brain quietly mutters, "I’m a bad person."
And if nobody explains that’s what’s happening, we just keep dragging those old memories around like emotional sandbags, wondering why everything feels so heavy.
I look back now and realize I was walking around inside a reality I had built out of pain. Brick by brick. Memory by memory.
And here’s the part that really hits me now — I wasn’t just doing that to myself. I was doing it to other people too.
If somebody hurt me once, I held onto that memory tighter than any of the good ones. If somebody doubted me, I remembered that longer than the times someone believed in me.
It’s not hard to see how that kind of memory hoarding wrecks communication and relationships.
When you’re standing armpit-deep in old pain, it’s pretty hard to see someone clearly — even if they’re standing right in front of you offering something better.
I’m still learning how to build differently. I’m learning to sort through my memories with a little more wisdom — to notice the moments when I showed up, when I tried again, when someone was kind.
I'm learning that what we choose to hold onto decides the kind of reality we get to live inside.
It decides the kind of me we believe in. And it decides the kind of we we can build with someone else.
If you’re nodding along right now, I’m curious — what’s one memory you’ve carried longer than it deserved? I’d love to hear if you feel like sharing. Your story might help someone else feel a little less alone.