There was a time when I thought love meant never letting go—especially when I was the one who had caused the hurt.
Two years ago, I loved someone deeply. And at first, I believed I loved him. But when I look back now, I realize what I really fell in love with was how he made me feel. Safe. Seen. Regulated. Worthy.
Around him, I softened. I was more affectionate, more grounded. I felt like a better mother, a better person. He brought out this nurturing, gentle version of me that I’d never fully felt safe enough to express before. It was like I’d finally unlocked a part of myself that had been waiting all along to be held.
And I think I also fell in love with the fantasy. Not the potential of who he could become—but the vivid future I imagined for us. I fantasized about our life together, living under the same roof, having a routine, building something permanent. I created that entire world in my mind within the first month. But a month isn’t enough to truly know someone. I see that now. When you’ve grown up with abandonment or emotional chaos, even the possibility of stability can feel like destiny.
We broke up. We didn’t speak for months. But somehow, we found ourselves back in each other’s orbit—again and again. For nearly two years, we lived in this cycle: we’d get close, then he’d pull away. Tentative reconnection followed by silence. Hope tangled with distance. And through it all, I stayed.
I didn’t stay to beg for love. I stayed to show him the growth. Not in the way that screams “take me back”—but in the quiet, steady way that says, “I’ve changed, and I hope you can see that.”
Because I knew I had broken something in him once. And that haunted me. I didn’t just want his forgiveness—I wanted him to know that I took the pain I caused, and I transformed it.
I alchemized the shame. I used the guilt. I let it refine me.
When I was sitting in anxiety, I didn’t run from it like I used to. I stayed. I reminded myself: others have felt this pain because of me—and now I understand it. That awareness didn’t destroy me. It deepened me. It softened me. It made me more compassionate.
And just when I thought we might finally have a chance at clarity—when I asked him what he wanted—he gave me hope. He didn’t walk away. He left the door open.
But within an hour, when I asked for clear confirmation, he ended it.
That moment broke something in me. Not because of the ending—but because he had a chance to be honest with me the first time and wasn’t. It felt like a betrayal. And in that betrayal, I lashed out—not because I wanted to hurt him, but because I felt devastated that, after all that time and all that healing, he still couldn’t be honest with me.
But the most surprising part? I didn’t lose myself in that pain.
I realized that I can love unconditionally… and it won’t be the end of me. I can sit in vulnerability without becoming unhinged. I can care deeply, even when it’s not returned, and still walk away with my dignity.
Because the version of me now? She’s no longer loving to be loved back. She’s loving because it’s who she is.
But there’s a difference between unconditional love… and unconditional access. And that’s what I finally learned.
If someone can’t recognize what they have in front of them… if they don’t want to meet me where I am emotionally… if they treat me like a placeholder or a maybe… I’m no longer going to spend my life proving I’m worthy.
Because I am worthy. And not because someone chooses me. But because I chose me.
So yes… I still love him. But that love is no longer about filling a void. That void was never his to fill. It was mine.
I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.