At the time, I didn’t fully understand why—I just knew I needed to feel seen again. Online dating gave me a space where I could present myself, be chosen, be desired. It became a way to prove that I was still attractive, still wanted, still… valuable.

And if I’m honest, it was also about validation.

There’s something about creating a profile—choosing the best pictures, writing just enough about yourself to seem interesting but not too exposed. It’s a curated version of you. Polished. Appealing. Safe. You don’t put your deepest wounds on display. You don’t lead with your trauma. You present the version of yourself that you believe will be accepted.

But that’s the thing—authenticity often gets lost in those spaces.

Because even when people are connecting with you, they’re not always connecting with the full truth of who you are. And deep down, you can feel that. The validation comes, but it doesn’t fully stick. It doesn’t fully heal. Because it’s based on a version of you that’s been edited for approval.

Now fast forward to my book.

My book is also “online” in a sense—it’s out there, accessible, visible. But the intention behind it is completely different. I didn’t create it to impress anyone. I didn’t write it to be chosen or validated by an audience.

I wrote it to tell the truth.

The raw truth. The uncomfortable truth. The parts of me that would never make it onto a dating profile. The parts that aren’t polished, pretty, or easy to digest.

And somehow, that changed everything.

Because now, instead of seeking validation from others, I’m giving it to myself. Every page is me saying, “This happened. This mattered. And my voice deserves to be heard.” Not filtered. Not minimized. Not hidden.

Online dating asked, “How can I be liked?”
My book declares, “This is who I am.”

And there’s power in that.

Real power.

Because validation that comes from outside can be taken away, ignored, or never fully trusted. But validation that comes from owning your truth? That stays. That roots you. That heals in a way attention never could.

What I once used to prove my worth has now been replaced by something deeper—I no longer need to perform to be seen.

I am seen, because I chose to see myself first.