Do Yourself a Favor…And Stop Pretending.

Written By Melissa Hull

Do yourself a favor: stop pretending you’re fine when you’re clearly not.

I know, I know. That’s not how we were raised. We were taught to smile, to power through, to be strong, even when we’re breaking. Especially when we’re breaking. Somewhere along the way, we inherited this unspoken belief that strength means silence. That being low maintenance makes us lovable. That not needing anyone is some kind of badge of honor.

But the truth is? That performance is costing you everything.

It’s costing you rest. Peace. Connection. Creativity. Wholeness. And it’s keeping you stuck in a version of your life that isn’t big enough for who you’re becoming.

So if you’re looking for a sign to fall apart a little, to admit you’re hurting, to be honest about the grief you’ve been carrying, to finally exhale the breath you’ve been holding for years — this is it.

You don’t have to keep holding it all together.

Because I promise you: the moment you stop pretending is the moment you start healing.

The World Doesn’t Need Another Polished Shell of a Person

You know what we don’t talk about enough?

How exhausting it is to be “the strong one.”

To be the one who always bounces back. Who always shows up. Who keeps smiling while silently unraveling inside. People applaud your resilience, but they don’t see the cost of it — how heavy it is to be leaned on when you’re secretly starving for support yourself.

I used to wear that badge of strength like it made me special. Like if I could just keep outperforming my pain, maybe I could outrun it.

But you can’t outrun grief. You can’t outwork heartbreak. You can’t out hustle trauma.

At some point, the body keeps score. The soul taps out. The mask starts to crack.

And when it does… that’s not failure. That’s freedom.

Because the world doesn’t need another version of you that’s edited for approval. It needs you! The raw, honest, healing-in-real-time version. The version that cries in the car, then shows up anyway. The version that feels fear and moves through it. The version that dares to ask for more than survival.

That’s who I am now. That’s who I fought like hell to become. And that’s who I’ll always write for.

Do Yourself a Favor and Tell the Truth, Even If It’s Inconvenient

It’s that simple… just tell the truth.

To yourself. To your people. To the mirror.

Tell the truth when someone asks, “How are you?” and you want to say, “Fine,” but you’re not. Say, “I’m struggling.” Say, “I’m tired.” Say, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Tell the truth when you feel like everyone has moved on and you’re still grieving. Say, “I still miss them.” Say, “The holidays are hard.” Say, “It still hurts.”

Grief doesn’t expire. Loss doesn’t follow a timeline. And you don’t owe anyone an explanation for your pain.

I spent too many years trying to make my healing look tidy and inspirational. Trying to be digestible. Palatable. But the truth? My healing was loud. It was messy. It looked like sobbing on the kitchen floor and barely remembering how to function. It looked like saying no to things I used to say yes to. It looked like disappointing people who wanted the old version of me back.

And it looked like telling the truth. Over and over again. Until it set me free.

So do yourself a favor and stop apologizing for where you are. Let it be enough. Let you be enough.

Grief Is Not a Life Sentence — But It Is a Life Shift

The grief doesn’t end. But it changes shape.

It stops screaming and starts whispering. It stops flooding and starts ebbing. And eventually, if you allow it, grief becomes less of a weight and more of a compass pointing you toward a deeper version of life. One with more tenderness. More clarity. More honesty.

But only if you stop resisting it.

Grief is here to change you. Not ruin you. And I get it, this kind of change is scary, especially when you didn’t choose it. When it came wrapped in tragedy or heartbreak or sudden absence.

But you know what’s scarier than change?

Never becoming who you’re meant to be because you were too afraid to feel your way through the becoming.

I think about that version of me, the one who was terrified to let go of the old life, the old dreams, the old identity. I think about how she kept trying to force herself back into a mold that no longer fit. And I wish I could go back and whisper to her, You’re not losing yourself. You’re outgrowing a version of you that could only exist before the grief. The new version is coming. Let her.

So if you’re in that in-between space — no longer who you were, not yet who you’ll become — do yourself a favor and stay there. Stay long enough to hear what your grief is trying to say.

It’s not trying to destroy you. It’s trying to deliver you.

Start Where You Are, Not Where You Think You Should Be

We love a good comeback story, don’t we?

We want the transformation. The before-and-after. The moment where it all makes sense.

But real healing doesn’t look like that. Real healing looks like relapsing into sadness on a Tuesday afternoon when you thought you were fine. It looks like canceling plans because you don’t have the energy to pretend. It looks like celebrating tiny wins that no one else sees.

So do yourself a favor and stop waiting to feel “ready.” Start where you are.

You don’t need a 5-year plan. You need five minutes of honesty with yourself.

You don’t need to become someone new overnight. You need to remember the parts of you that were never lost.

You don’t need to have all the answers. You need to ask better questions. Questions like:

  • What does my body need today?

  • What am I pretending not to feel?

  • What would feel like kindness to myself right now?

  • What parts of me are asking to be heard, not fixed?

Healing isn’t a checklist. It’s a relationship with yourself. And like any relationship, it takes presence, patience, and practice.

Stop Earning Rest — Claim It

Here’s another hard truth I had to learn: I was addicted to productivity because it distracted me from my pain.

If I could stay busy, I didn’t have to feel. If I could stay helpful, I didn’t have to admit how empty I felt. If I could stay impressive, maybe I could avoid being honest.

But here’s the deal, eventually, your body will stop you. Your spirit will go quiet. Your joy will become harder and harder to access. Because you can’t outwork a wound. You have to tend to it.

So do yourself a favor and rest. Not because you’ve earned it. Not because someone gave you permission. But because you are allowed to. Period.

Rest is not laziness. It’s resistance.

Rest is you saying, “I am still worthy, even if I’m not producing something right now.”
Rest is you saying, “My healing matters more than someone else’s expectations.”
Rest is you saying, “I will no longer abandon myself to stay impressive.”

You don’t have to earn rest.
You don’t have to justify peace.
You don’t have to explain why you’re tired.

You’re human. And you’re allowed to take a breath.

Let the Dream Change

Grief doesn’t just take people — it takes our futures too.

It takes the vision you had for your life. The plans. The milestones. The version of the story where they were still here, or it still worked out, or you still had that identity.

And that’s its own kind of heartbreak.

But here’s what I’ve learned: you are allowed to dream again. Not because you’ve “moved on,” but because your soul was made to expand. Even now. Especially now.

You’re not betraying what you lost by reaching for something new. You’re honoring it. You’re saying, “Because I have known pain, I am even more committed to joy.” That’s not selfish — that’s sacred.

So do yourself a favor and give yourself permission to dream differently.

Maybe the dream looks softer now. Maybe it’s less flashy, but more aligned. Maybe it’s slower, but it feels like home.

Let it be different. Let it be real.

Let yourself want things again.

You’re not here just to survive this life.

You’re here to feel it.
To create from it.
To rise inside of it.

A Life Bigger Than Grief

When I wrote Dear Drew, I wasn’t writing a self-help book. I was writing a love letter to the part of me that thought she couldn’t keep going. To the part of me that thought her story ended the moment her son’s life did.

But what I’ve come to understand is this: our lives don’t end with our losses. They begin again through them.

That doesn’t mean the pain disappears. It means we become more capable of carrying it, without letting it define us. It means we start to build lives that are bigger than our grief. Not because we forget what we’ve lost, but because we remember how much love we still carry.

So if you’re standing in the ashes of a life that no longer fits, wondering how you’ll ever feel like yourself again, do yourself a favor and stop looking for the old version of you.

She’s gone.

But someone else is rising.

She’s honest. She’s tender. She’s done pretending.

She is becoming.

Trust her.

Let her lead.

Let’s Stay Connected!

I’d love to keep the conversation going. Whether you’re looking for free resources, inspiration, healing tools, or want to dive deeper through my courses and podcast — there’s a space for you here:

Wherever you are on your healing journey, know that you’re not alone.

Melissa Hull
Previous

This Is Not Your Typical Approach to Healing
Next

Aligning with a Pure Heart: A Personal Journey of Self-Discovery and Transformation