For most of my life, my self-esteem wasn’t just low — it was subterranean. People walked over me like I was a welcome mat, and I let them. Because I was good with IT, I became the town’s emergency helpline, fixing everyone’s laptops, phones, tablets, routers, exploding printers — all for free — while quietly burning myself to ash.

I even dreaded going to the doctor, because consultations often ended with:
“While you’re here… can you just quickly look at this?”

When my in-laws visited and dragged their extended family along, I spent hours hunched over their gadgets, while everyone else lounged at the pool, sipping cocktails and laughing. And the worst part?
I thought this was normal.
I thought this gave me purpose.

Talk about a false sense of purpose — this one deserves its own trophy.

And the favors didn’t stop at IT.
They evolved into driving people to the hospital, house sitting, pet sitting, grocery runs, errands upon errands — endless demands on my time. And I thought I was doing the world a favor by being a “nice guy.”

Wrong.
I was not a nice guy; I was a doormat with a pulse.
A punching bag dressed as a person.
And yes, people took advantage. (Shame on you. You know who you are. Just kidding. …Mostly.)

Eventually, I hit a wall — twice — both times landing in a mental health clinic less than a year apart. The first time, I brushed it off, blaming everything from my fatherless childhood to an abusive upbringing, to booze. Spoiler: none of those were the actual cause.

Things got so bad that one night I fell to my knees, confessed every sin I thought was unforgivable, and gave my life to Jesus, wailing like an infant. When I got up, my psychiatrist looked at me as if I’d grown antlers, and prescribed medication so strong it could turn a grown man into a sleepy green pea.

Are you seeing the pattern yet?
Denial.
Excuses.
Repeat.

I tried fixing myself externally. I quit drinking, abandoned my business, found full-time work, started running (medals to prove it), and eventually quit smoking. I called this version of myself Iwan 3.0, believing I’d left 2.0 behind at the mental health clinic.

I even became so invigorated I wanted to have sex with my wife every night. (Sixteen years of marriage — you do the moths. This was Olympic-level enthusiasm.) I was on fire.

But under that smokescreen of “good behavior,” I was still me — the same bruised, approval-seeking creature, now with a slightly inflated ego and a shiny new running app. Only my wife and my dog were truly impressed.

And then the truth arrived like an unwelcome houseguest who plans to stay indefinitely.
Bang.
Another mental crash.
Another clinic.

This time, I woke up four days later and realized the full, awful weight of my existence.
No more excuses.
No more blaming my mother.
No more blaming my childhood.
No more blaming the universe.

It was just me.
And that revelation hurt like hell.

During that second stay, the medication was a bandage, not a cure. My psychiatrist — brilliant, patient, possibly curious because I was a writer — guided me, but never handed me the answers. She wanted me to discover them.

And one perfect mid-spring day, lightning struck.

My problem wasn’t cosmic.
It wasn’t trauma.
It wasn’t addiction.
It wasn’t anyone else.
t was my own mouth.
My own voice.

I had been verbally abusing myself for decades.
Every spilled drink: “Iwan, you idiot!”
Every forgotten word: “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”
Every mistake: a full-on verbal beating.
his wasn’t harmless self-criticism.
This was self-harm.

Negative self-talk creates stress, destroys self-esteem, fuels anxiety, messes with sleep, ruins relationships, raises cortisol, and traps you in a cage you built yourself.

Once I saw it… I couldn’t unsee it.

So I fought back.
I started being kind to myself.
Questioning the voice in my head.
Replacing insults with encouragement.

And yes — I started celebrating small wins.
Selling a book? I praise myself.
Running a good race? I celebrate.
Sometimes I even high-five myself in the mirror and pat my own chest. I hug myself. And I refuse to be ashamed — because it works.

For the first time in my life, I developed a real identity.
A real sense of self-worth.
And I mattered — to myself.

I began saying “no” to favors. At first timidly, then with growing confidence. The calls slowed. The texts stopped. The demands dried up.

The silence was deafening.
And terrifying.
But necessary.

Now, it’s your turn.

Go to the mirror.
Lean in.
Look deeply into your own eyes.
Raise your hand, give yourself a high-five, and say — out loud:

“You’ve got this.”