How “I Can’t” Was Born and the Hidden Roots of Self-Doubt

"I can't."

It slips out of my mouth too easily sometimes. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… resigned. A whisper wrapped in exhaustion. A quiet folding in.

But it wasn’t always there. "I can’t" had to be learned. It was born somewhere between hope and humiliation. Somewhere between trying and being told, "not like that," "you’re too much," "you’re not ready," "you’re not enough."

I think “I can’t” was born the first time I was laughed at for wanting something too big. Or maybe when I reached out and no one reached back.
Maybe it was the third, the fifth, the ninth rejection that finally did it. Not a single event, but erosion. A slow, steady drip of Why do I even bother?

At some point, the part of me that used to say “let’s try” sat down and got quiet. Because hope without support isn’t hope... It’s cruelty.

And when failure becomes familiar, “I can’t” starts to feel like protection. A wall between me and more disappointment. A way to keep my hands clean and my heart intact.

“I can’t” became a life jacket. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

But it kept me afloat in the deep end of "What if I try again and it hurts worse this time?" And no one told me that “I can’t” often means “I’m scared.”
That it means “I tried before and it broke something in me.”
That it means “I don’t want to feel that kind of failure again.”
Or “I don’t trust myself to survive what might happen.”

No one told me that under every “I can’t” is a younger version of me that did and got punished for it.
Mocked for it.
Abandoned for it.
Shamed for it.

And so now, even when I’m capable, even when the opportunity is here, even when the door is open...I stand still.
Because “I can’t” isn't about what I can do. It’s about what I believe I deserve.

That’s the real prison. Not ability. Not timing. But belief.

And the hardest part is this: People see the surface. They see the shrug, the excuse, the avoidance, the flake.
They don’t see the war underneath.
The part of me that wants to say yes.
The part that aches to try.
The part that remembers who I was before I learned to be afraid of my own wanting.

“I can’t” isn’t always the truth. Sometimes it’s just grief in disguise.

And maybe the work now is to meet it there. To ask it gently, “What are you protecting me from?”

To sit with it, not shame it. To remember the exact moment it was born, so I can give it something I didn’t have back then:
Safety.
Patience.
Permission to want again.

“I can’t” was born in a moment of pain. But maybe... Just maybe...It doesn’t have to live forever.

Keep flipping through my journal on the next page.