Greetings! It’s me—Mrs. Leila Lovesteal, The Selfish Swan. I suppose I should begin by admitting something I’d rather not. I don’t like being seen. Not fully. Not deeply. And especially not when someone else’s truth rubs against the glossy and glamorously pruned feathered image I’ve crafted of myself.
I am that elegant figure on the surface of the lake, gliding with composure. But beneath that grace? A practiced stillness holding back the tremble of uncertainty, trying to keep the whole façade from cracking. My struggle? I experience a specific resistance: romantic resistance born from bruised ego and the aching fear of surrender.
The Discomfort of Someone Else Being Right
Have you ever heard the truth from someone you love and felt it as a threat? That’s my daily meal. I’m starved for connection, yet the moment someone is directly or indirectly reflecting or bringing to awareness my blind spots, I recoil. I call it incompatibility. I say they’re projecting. Sometimes, I punish with silence or exaggerated drama. Because how dare anyone see past the performance? How dare they suggest my ego isn’t the brightest swan on the lake?
This is the resistance I swim in: not a rejection of love itself, but a rejection of love that asks me to surrender, especially if it might bruise the identity I’ve worked so hard to defend.
Craving Intimacy, Resisting Vulnerability
Let me describe the pattern. I crave union, obsess, want to be chosen, and I fantasize. But once that desire begins to demand presence, commitment, or truth, I freeze. The moment I sense I might have to risk something real—dismantle the persona, confess my fears, or let someone else’s needs take priority—I sabotage.
Sometimes with petty complaints. Sometimes with distance. And sometimes, with tears, I don’t fully understand and turn what could be a communion into a competition. I confuse obsession with devotion. I confuse control with safety.
Steps I’m Learning (Painfully) to Take
1. Notice the Bruise, Don’t Just Flinch
When someone says something that hits too close to home, I’m learning not to strike back or withdraw. I pause. What part of me feels injured? Often, it’s not even the truth that hurts—it’s the wound underneath it that was already there.
2. Practice Being Seen Without Performing
This is harder than it sounds. Letting someone witness me, not the swan but the messy bird underneath, feels like walking into the cold. But when I try it, just once in a while, it creates something strange and warm. Not admiration. Not controlled. Just… connection.
3. Speak From Longing, Not From Fear
I’ve spent so much time speaking from defence—blaming, proving, avoiding. Now, I ask myself: what do I actually want to say? What longing am I hiding? When I speak from that place, the whole dynamic shifts. Suddenly, I’m not battling someone else—I’m finally meeting them.
4. Choose Small Acts of Surrender
I used to think surrender meant becoming less. Giving up control. Losing. But I’m starting to see it as making space. Letting go of how I think it should be, just long enough to see how it actually is. Letting someone else’s truth stand without having to erase it with mine.
Final Words from Mrs. Leila Lovesteal
I still fall into old habits. I still get seduced by the idea of the perfect connection while fearing the real work it takes to create one. But I’m starting to hear the whispers of something wiser underneath all the noise—some quiet invitation to stop flapping and start floating. So, if you, too, are caught between craving closeness and fearing what it asks of you—if your ego flinches at the first sign of real reflection—you’re not alone. The water is cold, but the reflection is honest. And sometimes, that’s the start of actual love.
With some begrudging tenderness,
Mrs. Leila Lovesteal, the Selfish Swan 🦢
