Marilyn, Me, and the Masks We Wear

“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”
― Marilyn Monroe

Last night, in between watching the NBA Finals, I found myself caught up in a documentary about Marilyn Monroe. Call me a history geek, but I love digging into the stories of famous figures—their beginnings, their battles, the path they took to fame. There’s something powerful about learning who they really were beneath the glitter.

Truth is, I didn’t know much about Marilyn beyond the surface: the tragic suicide, the sultry “Happy Birthday” to the president, and the countless quotes that flood Instagram. But as I watched, I saw someone much deeper—someone who was incredibly insecure, hiding behind a persona she carefully curated for the world.

It was genius, in a way. She embodied the ultimate bombshell—confident, sexy, magnetic. But underneath it all, she was struggling. She wanted to be seen as more than the image the world adored. She read obsessively, trying to fill in what others said she lacked—because she never finished high school, because she wasn’t “smart enough.” It was heartbreaking and familiar.

I couldn’t help but see a version of myself in her story. I, too, used to hide parts of myself behind smiles and perfectionism. I wasn’t an orphan, I didn’t bounce from foster home to foster home, but I knew what it felt like to be deeply alone. Alone in the sense that no one really knew me, because I kept those pieces locked away. Vulnerability felt far too dangerous.

But here's the thing: living like that eventually breaks you down. You become a prisoner in your own mind. I’ve had moments—just like Marilyn must’ve had—where my thoughts raced, my emotions swelled, and I felt like I could scream from the inside out.

What changed? Self-reflection. And faith.

I started doing the hard work—recognizing my flaws, confronting them, and working to heal. I stopped pretending I had to carry everything on my own and finally realized I never truly was alone. God had been there all along, patiently waiting for me to understand that truth. That awareness has brought me more peace than I could’ve imagined.

I sometimes wonder what could have saved Marilyn. Maybe someone reminding her she was never alone. Maybe someone helping her believe that being vulnerable didn’t mean being weak. I wish she had found her version of peace before it was too late.

Lessons Learned in Love: How Heartbreak Taught Me My Worth

Over the last year, life has taken me on an emotional rollercoaster—one that forced me to reassess what I truly want out of life and love.

There were moments where I felt completely lost, even though I was once so sure of the future I envisioned. I was living in limbo—reacting to life instead of creating it. The fog is just now beginning to lift.

My last relationship—if you can even call it that—was short-lived, but intense enough to leave a lasting impact. I’ve replayed every moment, every conversation, every red flag. And the conclusion I’ve come to is this:
I should’ve walked away the first time I felt doubt, instead of waiting for all hope to disappear.

Instead, I stayed. I overcompensated. I kept trying to prove my worth to someone who was too afraid to receive it. He was still wounded from a previous relationship. And in trying to avoid his pain, he created new wounds for me.

It was another tough lesson in the idea that rebound relationships rarely work.

And while I had never laughed so much or felt so connected to someone at first, I had to ask myself—was the emotional toll worth it?

A friend of mine once said,

“As a Gemini, you tend to dive in headfirst. You want to see the good in people. You give your heart before checking if it’s safe.”

And she’s right.

But the last two experiences taught me to pause. To breathe. To see the bigger picture, not just the hopeful potential. Most importantly, they taught me this:

Knowing your self-worth is everything.

When you know your value, you stop chasing people who can’t see it. You stop trying to prove yourself to someone who should’ve known your worth from the start.

Yes, the pain will fade. But the memory of it will linger—just long enough to protect me from repeating the same mistake.

Unfortunately, heartbreak often builds walls. The next person will likely face those walls. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Because the right person won’t run from them.

They’ll see the walls... and think you’re worth climbing over them.