You see the carnage he caused, and all the cleanup you did—walking behind him with a broom and an emotional dustpan.
You see all the little deaths you endured every time you handed over your voice, your power, your wisdom, your loyalty.
You see the woman who was fighting a losing battle.
And you see her getting back up—slowly, steadily, with clarity returning and strength rising higher than before.
You see her stepping around the old traps, detours, and pitfalls that once fed his ego and validation.
You see his endless need for reassurance in work as proof he’s worthy, wanted, appreciated.
You see that “truth” for what it is—fragile, false, hollow.
You see the lonely existence he’s created, the one that pushes away anyone who tries to hold him.
You finally understand it was never about you—only about what you provided and how you made him feel.
You see that his depression, regression, and denial of self were the real wrecking balls.
You know you could never save him from himself, no matter how hard you tried.
You know you could never force him to love himself enough to create real change.
