I walked away not because it was easy, but because staying meant losing myself a little more each day. At first, I ignored the small betrayals—the quiet dismissals, the indifference, the way my voice seemed to carry less weight over time. I told myself love was about sacrifice, about patience, about understanding. But how much of myself was I supposed to give before there was nothing left?
I fought for us until the fight became one-sided. Until I realized I was the only one holding on, the only one still believing in a love that had already faded for him. And the hardest truth of all? He wasn’t the one who needed to leave—I was. Because staying wasn’t an act of love; it was an act of self-abandonment. And I refused to abandon myself any longer.
Choosing me was the hardest and bravest decision I’ve ever made. It meant walking through pain, through uncertainty, through the terrifying unknown. It meant mourning a future I once dreamed of and facing a reality I never expected. But it also meant reclaiming my joy, my worth, my identity.
Now, when I look in the mirror, I no longer see a woman waiting to be loved. I see a woman who loves herself enough to walk away from anything that asks her to be less than she is. And that, more than anything, makes me proud.
