Entry 15: Showing Up For Me

Prompt: Write about a moment when you were waiting for someone to show up—emotionally, physically, spiritually—and they didn’t. But you did. Maybe you cried in your car, maybe you fixed your own mess, maybe you cooked yourself a meal after someone flaked, or you held your own hand through a panic spiral. Reflect on what that moment taught you—not just about others, but about you. How did it shape your capacity for resilience?

Again, our parents do the best they can with the tools they have, the things they’ve learned, and the experiences they’ve had. How can you ask for more than that? It’s easy to say that now, but when you’re a little girl, you’re not thinking about that. All you know is that you want your parents to show up for you the same way all — not really all, but it feels like it — the other parents show up for their kids. 

I can remember wanting my parents to show up for school performances in elementary school, or award ceremonies recognizing students of the month. I was performing in a sense, wanting to give a reason why I was worth showing up for because just showing up for me wasn’t enough. 

But no one came — I can’t say they didn’t 100% didn’t want to come but I know there were other competing priorities. 

And I was not ranking high on that list. 

So, I learned to invite less. 

Hope less. 

Expect less.

Showing up for myself was going to have to be enough. I didn’t look each time someone walked through the doors, or scan for eyes or faces in the crowd, cause I already knew no one was coming.

Did it sting? Like alcohol on an open wound.

Did shoeing up for myself feel like enough? No.

But it was going to have to be, I was going to settle for what I had. 

Now, in my 20s, when there aren’t really any more award shows or commencement ceremonies, but rather work events or occasional dinners — I show up alone. 

I’ll be there. I’ll show up for me. 

I don’t invite anyone cause then I’d be inviting potential disappointment too. I’d rather suffer through the loneliness or being a party of one then suffer through the ache of a “Sorry, I forgot” or a “I can’t make it”, or “That was tonight, I’ll have to take a rain check”.

What I really hear is that I wasn’t a priority, again. 

It taught me that I can’t force myself to be other people’s priority. I can’t make you show up. I can’t make you remember. I can’t control what you do in any shape or form, especially not physically. 

But I can control me. I can show up when it matters. I accept the invites to the places I want to go. I silently, humbly accept acknowledgments and praise of my work in the professional setting. 

The downside to the experiences of my youth and how it translates to the now is since I couldn’t trust people to show up when I younger  — even though I asked — I just don’t ask. I just don’t invite.

Without an invitation, most people are really looking into my world from the outside in. And maybe those who would want to step up, who wouldn’t disappoint never get the chance too.

And where does that leave me? 

Navigating my world alone. 

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Note: Lessons from My 20s is A reflective series by Black Bonnet Girls. Lessons from My 20s is a journal-style series capturing the unfiltered truths, tender moments, and tiny awakenings that come with growing up and growing into yourself.  These entries are for anyone who’s ever felt stuck between who they’ve been and who they’re becoming. For the overthinkers, the late bloomers, the quiet dreamers, and the loud feelers. Through storytelling, reflection, and honesty, I hope this space becomes a soft landing—for me and for you.