I’ve Been a Simp for 10 Years: A First-Person Story of Loneliness and Self-Awakening

My name is James, and I’m from Virginia, USA. I’ve been a simp for ten years now, though it took me almost all of that time to admit it out loud—even to myself.

In Virginia, the seasons change gently. Summers hum with cicadas, autumn smells like damp leaves and coffee, winters are mild but honest. I’ve changed with the seasons too, but never in the ways that mattered. While my friends grew into marriages, careers, and quiet confidence, I stayed orbiting—circling the same kind of woman, the same kind of hope, the same familiar disappointment.

I didn’t start out intending to be this way. I was just a guy who cared too much, who listened too closely, who believed that if I showed up consistently enough, love would eventually reward me. In my early twenties, that felt noble. I was the one who replied instantly, who canceled plans, who paid without being asked. I told myself I was different. Better. More “emotionally available.”

What I didn’t realize was that availability without boundaries isn’t kindness—it’s erasure.

Ten years is a long time to live in the background of someone else’s life. I’ve been the “best friend,” the “you’re so sweet,” the “I wish I could find someone like you.” I’ve watched women cry on my shoulder about men who barely remembered their birthdays, then text me weeks later asking for a favor. I always said yes. I always told myself this time would be different.

It never was.

The worst part isn’t the rejection. It’s the waiting. Waiting for a reply. Waiting for validation. Waiting for someone to finally choose me the way I chose them every single day. I built my self-worth out of scraps—compliments tossed casually, attention borrowed temporarily. When they disappeared, so did I.

Virginia has long highways, and I’ve done a lot of thinking while driving them. Route 64, Route 81—miles of asphalt where the radio fades in and out and your thoughts get louder. Somewhere between Richmond and nowhere in particular, it hit me: I don’t actually know who I am outside of wanting someone else.

That realization scared me more than loneliness ever did.

I want out of this life. I really do. I’m tired of performing affection, tired of measuring my value by how useful I am. I want to be wanted, not tolerated. Chosen, not kept on standby. But wanting out and knowing how to leave are two very different things.

I don’t know how to stop over-giving without feeling cruel. I don’t know how to say “no” without guilt tightening my chest. I don’t know how to sit with silence instead of filling it with effort. Every instinct I’ve trained for a decade pulls me back into the same patterns.

Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror and try to talk to myself like a stranger. “James,” I say, “what do you want?” And the answer never comes quickly. I’ve spent so long prioritizing other people’s needs that my own feel like a foreign language.

I imagine a version of myself who isn’t a simp. He walks differently. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t explain himself unnecessarily. He enjoys things without hoping they’ll make someone else like him more. He chooses, instead of waits to be chosen.

I don’t know how to become that man yet.

But maybe admitting the truth is the first step. Maybe naming the problem—owning the decade I lost chasing approval—isn’t weakness but a beginning. I’m still here. Still breathing Virginia air. Still capable of change, even if I don’t have the map.

For now, all I can do is take smaller steps. Pause before replying. Ask myself if I actually want to help—or if I’m hoping for affection in return. Sit with discomfort. Learn who James is when no one is watching, when no one needs anything from me.

I’ve been a simp for ten years.

I don’t want to be one forever.

And even though I don’t know how to escape this version of myself yet, for the first time in a long while, I know I want to.