Cause he was sunshine, I was midnight rain.
Have you ever felt like you were wearing two different masks—one for the wrong people, and another for the right ones? It’s like living in a garden where you’re the sunshine that nurtures the weeds while the roses sit in the shade, untouched and longing for your warmth. We sometimes give our best selves to those who don’t see us and, without even realizing it, withhold our softer sides from those who might truly appreciate them. I’ve been there, and let me tell you, it’s exhausting.
The truth is, being everything to everyone can feel like chasing a mirage. You stretch yourself thin, hoping for acceptance, only to feel hollow when you realize the ones you cared for weren’t meant to hold your light.
Being sunshine to the wrong ones and midnight rain to the right ones.
It is a bittersweet irony we all experience at some point. And then there are those rare souls who see you clearly—every flawed, raw piece of you—but you give them the rain, the storms, the unfiltered shadows of who you are.
“I wish we could’ve met earlier; you would’ve loved the softer me.”
- It’s a haunting thought, isn’t it? The idea that timing can make us strangers to our own potential connections.
And maybe, as Taylor Swift sings, “I guess sometimes we all get just what we wanted, just what we wanted. I guess sometimes we all get some kind of haunted, some kind of haunted.”
Isn’t that the truth?
We get what we think we want—acceptance, belonging—but it comes at a cost. Life is a strange mix of getting what you think you need and realizing it might not be what your soul truly craves.
We’re left haunted by the versions of ourselves we gave away or the people we couldn’t love fully when they deserved it.
Instead of trying to be everything for everyone, focus on being real with the right people.
- Let go of the guilt for not being someone else’s constant sunshine—it’s not your job to light up every corner of the world. Save that warmth for those who value it and cherish it, not just because they need it, but because they see you. The truth is, the people who matter won’t run from your midnight rain; they’ll stand with you in it, umbrellas down, ready to weather the storm together.
So, stop watering weeds and start nurturing your roses.
And yet, even as I try to let go, the guilt lingers. And I never learn the guilt. It clings to me like an unwelcome shadow, reminding me of the times I couldn’t be enough, or the times I gave too much to the wrong people.
Maybe that’s just the way we’re wired—haunted by the echoes of what could’ve been. But I’m learning to carry it lightly, letting it shape me without breaking me.
