There was a time when I thought love was about holding on and holding down. Clutching tightly, even when my fingers were sore. Even when the rope burned and it unraveled me.
He was not all bad. In fact he was – he is a good man. He made me laugh. He knew how I liked my food. He knew I liked quiet mornings…. He knew me well enough– Atleast I’d like to think so.
But I guess, love isn’t enough. Not when it’s uneven. Not when you forget your own name while trying to fit into somebody else’s story. This is not a bitter blog post. This is not about dragging a man’s name through the mud – I would never do that. It is not about blame, shame or receipts. Its about choosing myself, finally, and not feeling guilty about it.
There were moments I thought leaving would break me. That i’d drown in quiet evenings and empty beds. And honestly, it did break me and I sometimes still drown in quiet evenings and empty beds.
However, what really broke me was staying too long in rooms that didn’t know how to hold me. Where I shrank myself into something smaller, quieter, easier to love.
And still, I do not hate him. He was a chapter. A very multi faceted chapter. Not the whole book. He was a lesson, not a life sentence.
I am learning to love the version of me that love(d) him while still loving the version of me that had to walk away. That Woman – I admire her. She is brave. She is rising and she has stood on business ever since.
And yet, I don’t wish him pain. I hope he grows. I pray he gets everything that his heart desires. I hope he finds joy and love. Because Me? I’m over here finding myself again. Learning to dance in my own skin. Learning to be comfortable in this uncomfortable silence. Learning to choose myself even when it means disappointing others. Learning to validate my feelings. Learning accountability because I too was not perfect. Learning to be comfortable in this discomfort and just take it one day at a time.
I don’t hate the man that I spent years with. But I love me more. And that’s the whole truth. That’s the freedom. That’s the poem. The goal is to be my own muse and I believe the rest will follow.
Does this mean I have given up on love? – I could never. But I guess the fairy tale has not been in the cards for me yet. I hope I find it someday. But until then, I’ll be here, loving myself through any and every uncomfortable phase life throws at me.
There was a time when I thought love was about holding on and holding down. Clutching tightly even my fingers were sore. But now I know , real love doesn’t ask you to lose yourself to keep it. Real love considers. Real love sees. Real love hears. Just like the saying goes – To be loved is to be known. Real love is service.

