I used to believe that love was supposed to hurt a little, that the deeper you loved, the more you had to lose. I thought devotion meant giving every inch of myself until I could no longer tell where I ended and where he began.
I thought love was about becoming one, but I never realized how dangerous it was when “one” meant only him.
At first, it was beautiful.
The way his presence filled my days, the way his words wrapped around my heart like a soft blanket. I built my world around his laughter, I made a home in his eyes. Every dream I had began to carry his name, and every silence I filled with thoughts of him.
I thought that was love. I thought that was happiness.
But slowly, without meaning to, I began to disappear. My laughter changed, my voice softened, my choices bent around his comfort. I forgot what I used to like, what I used to want. I forgot how it felt to exist only for myself.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the main character in my own story.
I told myself it was okay, that love demanded sacrifice, that true love required losing a little of yourself. But no one warned me that sometimes, when you give too much, you start forgetting who you are.
And once you forget, it’s hard to come back.
There were nights when I’d stare at the ceiling, wondering when I started feeling more tired than loved. Wondering why my heart felt so heavy even when he was right beside me. “It’s a strange kind of loneliness,” I once whispered to myself, “to be loved and still feel like you’re fading.”
The world saw me as happy. They saw a woman deeply in love. But behind every smile, I was quietly grieving the parts of me that had gone missing. The version of me that used to dream without fear, that used to laugh too loud, that used to believe she was enough.
And maybe that’s the saddest part, not that he stopped loving me, but that I stopped loving myself.
Now, when I look back, I don’t blame him entirely. He didn’t ask me to lose myself, I volunteered. I wanted to be his peace, his home, his everything. But in trying to be everything to him, I became nothing to myself.
And so I’m learning again, slowly, gently, how to return to me.
To remember the sound of my own laughter, the taste of my own solitude, the quiet joy of doing things just for me. It’s not easy to rebuild what you’ve willingly abandoned. But I suppose that’s what healing means, coming home to yourself after wandering too far.
I am no longer looking for someone to complete me. I am learning to be whole on my own. Because now I know, love is not about losing yourself in someone else. It’s about finding someone who reminds you to stay.
