The Diary of a Former “Pick Me”: A Black Feminist’s Journey to Choosing Herself

I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, and heart pounding. I had just sent another long message. It was carefully worded, painfully honest, rooted in a deep hope that maybe this time he would finally see me. Not just read my words. Not just respond. But see me. All of me.

He didn’t.

Instead, he disappeared into silence. Argued. Invalidated me. Avoided accountability. Blamed me.

His response, familiar and sharp, reopened wounds I hadn’t realized were still bleeding. I wasn’t just mourning his reactions; I was mourning every moment in my life I had gone unseen, unheard, unchosen. I thought I was grieving a man. But what I was really grieving was the little girl in me who had always believed she had to earn love and who had never been prioritized.

This wasn’t just about him. He had become the latest mirror of a deeper pattern: the anxious clinging, the endless overexplaining, the begging for emotional scraps from men who were emotionally unavailable or stuck in their own trauma. Men who reminded me, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways, of the same rejection I felt in childhood.

That was when it finally clicked: the desire to be chosen didn’t start with him; it started long before. And until I tended to the wounded child within me, I would keep finding myself in the same cycle, hoping someone else would give me what only I could give myself.

There is a quiet ache many of us carry into adulthood. The aching desire to be chosen.

Not just loved, not just liked, but chosen: picked above all others, seen as worthy, protected, fought for, and prioritized. This yearning often goes unnamed in adult relationships, masked by anxiety, jealousy, control, or silence. But beneath the surface, it is the inner child within us who is still waiting at the door, eyes wide with hope, asking, “Will you pick me this time?”

The “Pick Me” Label: A Misunderstood Cry for Love

In social media, the term “pick me” is often used to describe a woman who seeks male validation at the expense herself and of other women. She’s the one who says, “I’m not like other girls,” or shames women for expressing sexuality or independence in hopes of appearing more desirable to men. The label carries judgment and is often used to dismiss women seen as desperate, naive, or complicit in patriarchy.

But what if the “pick me” isn’t just a stereotype? What if she’s a woman acting out of an old wound, shaped by systems that taught her from a young age that being chosen by a man is the ultimate measure of her worth?

Because the truth is, beneath the surface, we have all been a “pick me” in some form. Every time we silenced ourselves to keep the peace, ignored our intuition to avoid abandonment, or contorted our identities to be more “loveable,” we were trying to be picked. Every time we tolerated mistreatment, over-functioned in a relationship, or competed for a man’s attention, we were reenacting a familiar script: If I can just be good enough, maybe I will finally be chosen.

The “pick me” isn’t the enemy. She’s the inner child in survival mode.

She’s the little girl who watched women around her sacrifice themselves for love. Who saw media glorify women who were submissive, selfless, or silent. Who internalized messages from church, culture, and home that taught her her value only existed in relation to a man’s approval. Who may have never been affirmed or seen by a father figure and learned to equate male attention with safety.

When Feminism Meets Fear: How My Wounds Compromised My Values

I have always identified as a Black feminist.

I’ve spoken out against patriarchy, fought for women’s liberation, and advocated for the protection of Black women in both my personal life and my professional work. I believed in the sacredness of sisterhood and the necessity of dismantling the systems that harm us. And yet in the name of love, in the grip of fear I betrayed myself and, in turn, betrayed the very women I claimed to protect.

Because despite my politics, I tolerated harmful behavior from men. I stayed silent when I was being disrespected. I accepted emotional inconsistency, dishonesty, and even subtle forms of manipulation and gaslighting. I over-functioned, over-forgave, and over-compensated all because I was afraid of being abandoned.

I told myself I was just giving grace. I told myself he was traumatized too. I told myself love could heal him.

But the truth is, I was abandoning myself to avoid being abandoned by someone else.

And when we, as women (especially women who call ourselves feminists) normalize this kind of self-betrayal in our relationships, we don’t just hurt ourselves. We hurt each other.

Because every time we excuse or enable a man’s harmful behavior, we contribute to the illusion that it’s acceptable.

• We send the message to other women that abuse or neglect is just something to be endured for the sake of love.

• We help emotionally unavailable or abusive men continue cycles of harm by never holding them truly accountable.

And whether we mean to or not, we make it harder for the next woman to say no, to walk away, to demand more.

That’s not feminism. It is FEAR.

And I say this not from a place of shame, but from a place of radical honesty and healing. Because the more I’ve unpacked my patterns, the more I’ve realized that my feminism wasn’t flawed; it was fragmented by trauma.

Now, I understand that being a Black feminist isn’t just about speaking truth to power in public. It’s about embodying that truth in private. It means loving myself and other women enough to no longer romanticize or protect the systems (or the men) who harm us.

And it means doing the hard work of unlearning the idea that love must be earned through suffering.

The Truth: You Were Always Enough

The greatest healing comes when we realize that the person you’ve been waiting to choose you… is you. Healing the desire to be chosen doesn’t mean no longer wanting love or partnership; it means no longer seeking validation through it. It means reparenting the inner child, showing her every day that she is already worthy, already loved, and already chosen by you.

When we do this, our relationships shift. We begin to attract and accept only what honors our truth. We stop mistaking chaos for passion. We no longer tolerate breadcrumbs of affection. We recognize the red flags as echoes of past wounds, not signs of fate. And most importantly, we come home to ourselves.