There was a time when that relationship had me at its mercy. It wasn’t in a dramatic, movie way. It was in a quiet, everyday surrender that happens when you believe loving harder will eventually make you chosen.
Back then, I thought love was supposed to feel consuming. I thought the ache meant depth, the uncertainty meant passion and the waiting meant devotion. I didn’t see how much of myself I was handing over, piece by piece. I exchanged these pieces for moments of closeness. But these moments never quite lasted.
Now, with distance, the signs feel embarrassingly obvious.
I ignored how often I explained away hurt.
How I learned to soften my needs so they wouldn’t seem like demands.
How I measured my worth by how much I was willing to endure.
I told myself this was what loving someone deeply looked like being patient, being understanding, being forgiving.
That relationship thrived on my loyalty and survived on my silence.
I see now how power slipped into the space where partnership should have lived. How I was always reaching while they stayed comfortably just out of reach. I was devoted to the idea of us, while they were devoted to the benefits of my devotion.
It’s strange how clarity doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in flashes lyrics that land too close, memories that rearrange themselves, realizations that sting but also free you. Suddenly, moments that once felt romantic reveal themselves as warnings I wasn’t ready to hear.
I don’t blame the version of myself who stayed. She loved with everything she had. She believed in forever. She thought commitment meant endurance. She didn’t know yet that love isn’t proven by how much pain you can survive for someone.
Now I know better.
Love shouldn’t hold you hostage.
It shouldn’t make you smaller.
It shouldn’t ask you to beg for clarity or earn consistency.
That relationship no longer has me at its mercy. It did teach me something invaluable. I learned the difference between being deeply in love and being deeply entangled. It’s the difference between choosing someone and losing yourself.
And maybe that’s the quiet redemption in loving the wrong person—you leave knowing exactly what you will never accept again.
Quiet Harbor Writing 