Scarcity isn't just about money. It's a climate. A season that settles within and makes summer seem ever distant. It whispers in your ear like a thin wind: I'm not enough, life is hard, there's never any money left, there's no love for me , there will always be a shortage . And so the body learns to shrink. It learns to ask for little, to celebrate crumbs, to confuse attention with affection and urgency with importance. Life becomes rationed: of laughter, of rest, of hugs.

Perhaps it began in a home where praise was rare, where silence weighed more heavily than any shout. Perhaps in a love that promised the sea and delivered nothing. Perhaps in glances that passed you by like someone passing by a shop window: they see, they desire, they don't take. And the heart, in an attempt to survive, signed silent pacts: I must deserve to be loved ; if I show myself, I'll be rejected ; good things don't last . These were phrases that seemed prudent, but were bars.

When scarcity is emotional, it dons elegant masks. It becomes perfectionism, hyperindependence, a joke made at the right time so no one notices the lack. It becomes the belief that I'm too much or too little , that I don't have space , that others come first . It becomes the ingrained idea that intimacy is risky: I can't trust , if I relax, something bad will happen , asking is weakness . And so, even surrounded by people, the soul walks with a chill in its hands, like someone walking through the night without a coat.

There's also the scarcity of time and voice. It whispers: It's too late , I can't be who I am , my needs get in the way , my joy is excessive . It transforms the body into a spreadsheet, desire into a schedule, dreams into tasks. And when joy arrives, a shadow passes behind: if I'm happy, something bad will happen . Laughter returns to the pocket, sparkle to the drawer.

But there comes a time when something inside us tires of surviving. A hunger older than fear awakens. Not the hunger to possess, but to fit in. To belong in one's own skin. To look in the mirror and recognize home. That's when therapy comes on like a room with warm light—not to erase history, but to read it with the eyes of someone who knows that everything that was defense once wanted to be cared for.

Therapy is the place where these bold sentences can finally be read aloud, with time. Where I am not enough, I find the question: "Enough for whom?" Where there is no love for me, I find the memory of the love that has sustained my own survival thus far. Where I need to deserve to be loved, I rest, just for a moment, and experience the possibility of being received without proof. It is a space of translation: from the language of lack to the language of life.

In this encounter, there is no rush. There is presence. There is a chair waiting, a glass of water, a sigh that arrives whole. There are stories that take shape, tears that make sense, laughter that doesn't apologize. There is a ground that supports. And, little by little, the climate inside changes seasons. The same streets, the same routine, but a different temperature. Instead of the old mantra— what's good doesn't last —something broader insinuates itself: maybe I last in what's good.

If you've read this far and something inside you says, "This is it," consider this text an invitation. A first gesture of affection for the part of you that always believed it had no space . Come with your tired versions and your unanswered questions. Bring the phrases that still weigh on you, including those that say I shouldn't ask and I can't depend on anyone . There's a place prepared for you. Therapy doesn't promise shortcuts; it offers a path. And, along the way, the chance to retell your story until life fits you—and you fit into life—without having to shrink. Whenever you want, I'll be here.