Now before I start this, let me make it crystal clear: my problem was never not knowing my worth. I’ve always known I’m worth a damn. My issue? I’ve never respected my own limits. I’ve been spreading myself thin since I was basically in pull ups.

As a kid, if I wanted something, my requests never got met without an Oscar worthy meltdown from my parents. So, I was forced into the art of bargaining. Bargaining became my toxic little superpower. My curse. And honestly? I could write a three season Netflix series about it. But for today, we’ll keep it at three phases.

Phase One: Parents — the Original Opponents.
With my dad, it was simple. If I wanted him to like me, I had to mirror him. He liked football? Boom, suddenly I was the Patriots’ newest linebacker. He liked history? I became a walking encyclopedia of presidents no one cared about. If he liked it, I liked it. That was the exchange rate.
My mom was a whole other stock market. She didn’t care what I liked, I just had to keep our family secrets like they were national security. “As long as you don’t tell Grandma what happened, sure, honey, you can have a cookie.” Basically, my mom was the original CIA handler, and I was the kid sworn to silence under the Patriot Act.

Phase Two: Friendships ,Me as Judge Judy.
By the time I was 12, I had the eyes of a hawk and the heart of Simon Cowell. The perks of growing up with narcissists? You can clock people’s flaws in 0.2 seconds. I loved my friends, but I was always balancing imaginary scales. “Okay, she’s annoying as hell when she sings in class, but she does have an older brother who gives me rides home. Fine, we’re good.”
If the scales tipped too far though? Friendship revoked. Done. Finished. Picture me at 13 in Limited Too jeans, serving courtroom level judgment like: Court finds you guilty of being a fake friend. Sentenced to immediate exile.

Phase Three: Men , The Big Boss Level.
This one is hilarious because as much as I claim men are not centered in my life, they somehow control the WiFi signal of every woman in my family. They will literally disintegrate into dust trying to please a man. I could never. What I could do? Bargain.

See, I was never the “give 100% of myself” type. Absolutely not. I’m giving you 60%. But my 60% is Beyoncé at Coachella, okay? It feels like 100. It’s enough to keep you fed, me fed, and still leave me with enough crumbs to keep my own sanity. I learned early on that if people were gonna take from me regardless, then I’d be damned if I didn’t learn how to keep something for myself.

Now, let’s talk about the guy.
The start with him? Genuinely fun. And not “rebound fun.” Not “he’s cute but I’m sad” fun. He was actual fun. He skipped all the corny icebreakers like “what’s your favorite movie?” and jumped straight to the spicy stuff. And me, being me, I’ll let your mind wander on that. But the point is, he was different.

Here’s my problem though: when I look back at my history with men, I was always drawn to the ones who were hot and cold. Because, apparently, I like my relationships served toxic with a side of confusion. It wasn’t that I liked it, it’s just that consistency made me itch. If a man was kind to me for no reason? I’d literally be offended. Like, sir, why are you giving me affection I didn’t have to audition for? Do you think I’m weak? Do you think I can’t handle emotional turbulence? Please.

The men who got my full attention were the ones who forced me to bring my A-game. And just to be clear , I was never a beggar. Oh no. I was a bargainer. “You give me this, I’ll give you that. You hold back, I’ll just snatch what I want anyway.” Basically, I was running a full time bartering system. Imagine me as a one woman flea market of emotional transactions.

So, when the new guy came along and started that game, I was like, “Oh, sweetie, buckle up. I have the playbook memorized.” I’d already gone on a date with another guy post breakup but he was so clearly still obsessed with his ex it was laughable. Sitting across from him felt like playing chess against a goldfish. Meanwhile, I was a cheetah. He was…a sea anemone. Just sitting there, wobbling in the current. I left his place thinking: Girl, why aren’t you upping the score? Why are you even wasting your speed on this coral reef reject?

Looking back, that was insane. But also kind of amazing. Because you really do just wake up one day and think: “You know what? I’m over this. I want different.”

So there I was: sitting with a breakup, revisiting a washed up situationship, and playing cat and mouse with a new guy. And I realized, either I attract bargain loving men, or I force them to bargain because I never gave anyone the chance to just… finish me. (And not in the cute way, either.) Sitting in bed, spooning Ben & Jerry’s into my mouth, watching The Lincoln Lawyer, I decided: I’m done. Bowing out. Throwing in the towel. Doing something my parents would never allow me to do as a kid: quitting.

And listen, I’ve always believed in one thing life goes on. Always. But usually when life “went on,” I’d just numb myself out. Because I knew trauma was always waiting around the corner like, “Hey boo, miss me?” But as long as there were good times too, I’d hang in there.

This time, though? I couldn’t numb. I couldn’t dissociate. I was too damn self aware. I had to sit in it. The truth. And listen the truth? Hurts like hell. Hurts worse than stubbing your toe on the same piece of furniture you put there. Hurts worse than realizing the Chipotle guac really is extra. But instead of unleashing hell on everybody like the petty queen I once was (and oh, the material I had), I chose to heal. To actually address the wound. To finally stop playing the bargain game.

So yeah, “the truth hurts.” But baby, that phrase is an understatement. Try “the truth runs you over, reverses, and drives off without leaving insurance information.” That’s more accurate.