On Love, Loss, and Learning to Let Go

Isn't it strange how the people who love the hardest are often the ones who never learned what real love looks like? They didn't learn it from being cherished—they learned it from waiting, from silence, from people who left without explanation. That's why they overdo everything. They stay longer than they should. They try harder than anyone asks. They give their whole heart to people who barely give back pieces.

It's not because they're clingy. It's because they remember what it felt like to beg for attention and still get nothing. They love with everything they have because no one ever told them they didn't have to earn it. They keep choosing people who can't love them properly, hoping their warmth will finally melt someone's cold. But it never works. And they break quietly, over and over—not because they're weak, but because they still believe love might save someone, even though it won't save them from their own emptiness. They're trying to give what they never got, hoping it will somehow heal the part of them that's still waiting to be loved back.

Do you know what it feels like to give everything to someone and watch them still choose to walk away? Like you were willing to fight for them, stand by them, love them harder—but they'd rather lose you than choose you. That kind of rejection doesn't just sting. It sinks into you, quiet and heavy and deep.

That was me.

I loved this girl more than anything. I was loyal. I was present. I didn't cheat, I didn't play games. I just wanted to build something real. And still, she looked me in the eye and chose a life without me—like I wasn't worth staying for, like I was too easy to leave.

It messes with your mind. I started thinking maybe I wasn't enough. Maybe I cared too much. Maybe love like mine doesn't get chosen anymore. That's the part that hurts the most: not just losing her, but realizing she never really saw what I gave her.

I wouldn't wish this kind of pain on anyone. It's not just heartbreak. It's watching your future collapse in silence. It's laying awake at night replaying everything, wondering what the hell went wrong when you were just trying to be good to someone.

But listen—I'm still here. I'm still breathing. And every day I remind myself: if she didn't see the value in me, that's not proof that I'm worthless. It's proof she wasn't ready for something real. That kind of love I gave, that kind of loyalty—someone out there is going to feel lucky to receive it.

If you're in this place right now, where it feels like no one would ever choose you, don't stay quiet in it. Write me a letter if you can't say it out loud. Sometimes just putting it into words feels like healing.

What's one thing I wish I knew sooner?

Don't put your emotional home in another human being.

I wish I'd known that sooner. I wish everybody knew that sooner. No one can tell you that as a child, I suppose, because unconscious parents raise unconscious children. No one knows to say that to a child; no one knows to say it to another adult.

But one of the biggest discoveries of my life has been this: when you put your emotional home in other people, you give them a power over you that no human should have. When the people I over-invested in—the ones I looked to for validation, inclusion, acceptance, love—didn't give me that on a certain day, I developed an increasing sense of anxiety and avoidance that became characteristic of my attachment style.

Because no one told me that when you put your home in someone and then they reject you, you feel like a homeless person. You have no address because you made them your address.

I hope one day you realize that a person staying in a relationship, waiting for you to change, is so much more than love. That's devotion. The purest form of loyalty.

They only saw the good in you and the potential that you had—not the hurtful things you said and did. Just remember that next time you call them crazy or dramatic, because they didn't deserve any of that.

They forgave things they never talked about. They made excuses for your silence, your coldness, your moods. They loved you through the damage you refused to heal. And even when they were hurting, they stayed soft with you—not because they were weak, but because they believed in you more than you believed in yourself.

They carried the weight of your indifference and still chose to stay. They swallowed their needs just to keep the peace. All they ever wanted was for you to meet them halfway.

I loved you so much that even when you hurt me, I tried to understand you. I told myself you were just stressed, that maybe I was asking for too much. I gave you the benefit of the doubt even when it made me doubt myself. I kept showing up, hoping you'd notice.

I wish love didn't feel like I was the only one fighting to keep it alive.

A word of warning: Don't date an emotionally intelligent person if you're not ready to hear the truth.

You know why? Because they're going to call you out—not to hurt you, but to wake you up. They'll see right through your excuses and your patterns. They'll see those walls you built to protect yourself. They're going to notice when you're being avoidant. They're going to notice when you're projecting your pain onto them. And you know what? They're going to hold you accountable.

To them, real love isn't about pretending everything's okay. Emotionally intelligent people do not play games. They don't use silent treatments or manipulation. They communicate, even when it's uncomfortable. And if you're not ready for that level of honesty, it's going to feel like confrontation when really, it's connection.

So don't date someone emotionally aware if you're still in love with your comfort zone, because they will push you to see yourself. And once you do, you can't unsee it. They're going to love you deeply, but they'll also challenge the version of you your ego has been protecting.

That's where healing begins. That's why real growth starts when you're facing yourself.

Leaving you was the last thing I wanted to do, but sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone you love is to let them go.

Staying would've only kept us both bleeding, and you deserve peace—the kind of peace I could never bring. I battled with this decision, but real love sometimes isn't about holding on. It's about knowing when to set each other free.

I hope you take care of yourself better than I ever could, because this time I won't be coming back.

You'll always have a piece of me—a part of my heart that no amount of time can erase. But this is where our story ends, and I have to learn to walk without you.

I wish things were different. I wish we'd made it. But I still wish you happiness, even if it's not with me. Find the love that makes you feel safe. Find someone who makes you feel like home. And please, love yourself enough to keep going. Don't let this pain swallow you.

Even if I'm no longer there, you're still worthy of love. Always.

This goodbye isn't giving up on you. It's setting us both free.

You're going to realize that the same person doesn't come around twice in a lifetime. And by then, they might be gone.

We live in a world that moves extremely fast—a world that tells you to just find someone new, that there's always another one. But here's the truth that most people don't want to admit: not everyone is replaceable.

Some people come into your life and connect with your soul in a way that no one else ever will. And when you lose them, that space they used to fill stays empty. You're going to look for them in other people—in smiles and laughs and hugs—and it just won't feel quite right. They won't be there.

That kind of connection? It was once in a lifetime.

We hurt the people closest to us—not always on purpose, but with neglect, with pride, with silence. And we assume there will be time to fix it. But what if there isn't? What if the person you hurt was the one meant to spend the rest of your life with?

Not everyone gives you a second chance. Not everyone sticks around for you to come to your senses. Some people will love you deeply until they don't feel safe loving you any longer. And when they walk away, that silence, that absence—it'll echo louder than anything they ever said.

So be mindful. Be intentional. Treat the people who truly matter with care, before they become the lesson that taught you what "too late" really feels like.

After all these years, my definition of love is this:

Love isn't the meeting of two people. It's the collision of two egos—and whoever can bleed without keeping a score makes it last.

It sounds harsh, but it's true. Because no matter how much you love someone, you still have pride. You still have a need to be right, to be heard, to be seen. And so do they. Every fight, every disagreement—it's not just about the issue. It's two egos clashing, each one wanting to be understood.

And the thing is, love doesn't last because of good times. It lasts when one or both people can swallow their pride in the moment and not turn it into a competition of who gave more, who hurt more, who compromised more. But if both people keep defending their ego, the relationship becomes a war.

In the end, love doesn't mean the absence of ego. It's learning to let it take a hit without letting the relationship die because of it.

What is love to me?

It's just choosing the same person over and over again, even when you know it can't work.

But if it doesn't work, how can you keep choosing?

You don't choose because it works. You choose because it's them.

That's it. Peace…!!?? ??