Somewhere in childhood, we are taught that giving is good, and wanting is wrong. Then we grow up, we fall in love, we trust, and we discover that the world doesn’t always give back. And then something quiet, almost imperceptible, is born within us: egoism as a protective armor.
It begins as a small spark – to protect yourself, to avoid getting lost in another. You tell yourself, “I’ll keep my distance, I won’t give myself completely.” And at first, it works. It helps you survive. It shields your heart from that heavy blow when giving remains one-sided.
But over time, the armor turns into a wall. You put it up for your own sake, but it begins to isolate you. The one you want to love stands outside while you try to stay “safe” inside. And then you realize: egoism is not just a choice, not just a behavior. It is a trap. Because the more you protect yourself, the less you have left for others – and for yourself.
Writing is a strange therapy for this. When you put your thoughts on paper, you discover how alone you are – and how desperately you crave closeness. Ego and egoism begin to unravel – one is the need to be seen, the other is the fear of being hurt. And you realize: you cannot love without risk, you cannot be yourself without breaking part of the wall.
At the end of the day, egoism is our armor, protecting us while we live, yet isolating us when we love. Perhaps the goal is not to remove it, but to learn when to take it off. When to set it aside, to reach the other – and to reach ourselves.
Because true intimacy begins where fear has finally stepped back.