The Years It Took to Find Me Again"

I loved him.

Not the kind of love you whisper about to friends, but the kind that grabs hold of your soul and convinces you it's forever. I loved him through silence, through doubt, through lies I pretended not to see. I knew he was cheating. I saw the signs. I felt it in my gut. But I stayed… because of the way he kissed me.

That kiss—it made me forget I was breaking.

It made me believe, even for a second, that I was wanted. That I was chosen.

But I wasn’t.

Every time I confronted him, he lied. Effortlessly. And every time, I believed a little less—but stayed a little longer. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was fear. Maybe I just didn’t know how to let go of someone who felt like home, even if that home was built on pain.

The other girl? I knew her.

Older. Desperate for his attention. She looked at me with eyes full of jealousy, but I wanted to say, You’re not winning. I’m just bleeding quieter than you are.

He said he loved us both, like love was something he could divide and serve to whoever begged louder.

I refused to go to his house. I wasn’t ready to give my body to someone who couldn’t even hold my heart with care. And in the quiet corners of my mind, I started hearing the truth: I’m nothing to him.

Still, I stayed.

For one year and five months.

I stayed through the lies, the betrayal, the slow erosion of my spirit.

Until one day, I didn’t want to fight anymore. I didn’t want to be the girl begging to be enough. So I let go. I gave him to her—not because she won, but because I refused to keep losing myself.

The breakup didn’t free me instantly.

It shattered me.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t sleep. I missed his kiss, his laugh, the idea of who I thought he was. I stopped believing in love. I stopped believing in me.

But healing came slowly.

Not in weeks. Not even in months.

It took years.

Years of crying in silence.

Years of questioning my worth.

Years of learning that I was never hard to love—he was just incapable of loving right.

Little by little, I picked up the pieces.

I started journaling my truth.

I whispered affirmations to myself even when I didn’t believe them.

I surrounded myself with people who saw me when I couldn’t see myself.

And one day, I looked in the mirror and didn’t see the broken girl anymore.

I saw a woman. Whole. Wiser. Still tender—but unshakably strong.

I don’t need his kiss.

I don’t need closure.

I have me.

And now I know… the most powerful love I’ll ever have is the love I give myself.