I Thought I Was Ready

I thought we were building something sweet and mutual. I thought I was ready.

August 14, 2025: Four Months Post-Explosion

This has been the most disorienting, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching chapter of my life.

Not because I hadn’t done the work,

but because I had.

I spent decades untangling myself from the knots I was raised with.

Decades learning how to name my needs, not love through toxicity, stay present in conflict, choose softness without losing my power.

Decades studying what healthy love looks like—not the fairytale kind, but the kind that shows up, stays consistent, and makes you feel seen even on the ordinary days.

I thought I was ready.

I had rewritten so many patterns, turned my trauma into wisdom, practiced forgiving without abandoning myself.

I had become the kind of person I once thought didn’t exist—someone who could love cleanly, speak truth gently, offer warmth without control.

So when he came along—humble, intelligent, charming—and said he wanted to be my safe place, I believed him.

I wanted to believe him.

I had known him for years through mutual volunteer organizations.

We had served together on committees.

He was a professional.

Well spoken. Brilliant. A father.

We had mutual friends who thought he would be good for me.

And we had taken our time—months of slow connection—getting to know each other more intimately.

From the outside, it looked solid.

From the inside, it felt like something that could last.

He used words like “cherish.”

Asked if I felt safe, warm, loved.

And for a while, I did.

But the longer we were together, the more those words felt hollow.

He’d show up intensely, then retreat.

He’d say the right things, but his actions didn’t match.

He was inconsistent, secretive, sly.

And I felt it in my body before I could name it with words.

I would leave his presence filled with anxiety, fear, doubt, and uncertainty.

Smiling on the outside, unraveling on the inside.

I told myself I was being dramatic—when really, my nervous system was telling the truth.

But I didn’t name him as the source.

I named me.

I stayed—because I truly believed he was healthy.

He told me he was hard to love,

and I wanted to show him otherwise.

I believed we had built a foundation of mutual respect and friendship over time.

I thought this was different.

I thought it was real.

And I thought it was me.

I genuinely thought I was being too needy.

Too reactive. Too much.

Even though he was slow to respond, emotionally distant, and treated me casually.

Instead of saying, This is unacceptable,

I turned inward.

Not to abandon myself—but to try and fix what I thought was broken in me.

I filled journals with love letters to myself.

I named my emotions like lifelines.

I wrote down what I was receiving—and what I longed for but never got.

I told myself the truth, even when I wasn’t ready to act on it.

I spent hours with myself, fiercely loving me—because someone had to.

But still, I blamed me.

Blamed my inexperience with “healthy.”

Blamed my trauma.

Blamed my brokenness.

And he let me.

He let me doubt myself instead of him.

Let me carry the weight of his inconsistency and off energy.

Let me wonder if I was the problem

when something in him just didn’t feel safe.

He let me carry the weight of his lies,

his cover stories,

his hurtful behaviors,

his empty promises.

He let me believe that my reactions were the issue—

Not the quiet betrayals,

Like finding the love note from one woman in his car.

Like the hand-drawn hearts in the fog on his bathroom mirror from another.

Different women.

Different betrayals.

Same story.

He let me do the emotional labor

for both of us.

And when I tried to talk to him about things—because that’s what healthy people do in healthy relationships—suddenly he was the victim,

and I was apologizing.

I was blaming me.

The conversation would twist,

and by the end, I was the one trying to make it right.

Every. Single. Time.

We were together for well over a year,

and over that time, I began seeing patterns.

I talked openly with friends, family, and trusted allies—and no one doubted my experience.

No one questioned the pain I was naming,

or tried to convince me it was normal.

What he was doing was shitty.

They saw it clearly.

He was the only one defending himself, his words, and his actions.

To everyone else—he looked like a monster.

Their clarity became a mirror.

Each time I spoke the truth out loud, I felt less crazy.

Eventually, I didn’t need their reflection

to recognize what I was already seeing.

And when the cracks in his mask grew too wide to ignore—when the truth of his lies spilled out in plain sight—I stopped letting him dictate the story.

I stopped gaslighting myself.

And I finally believed me.

When I refused to meet with him in person—knowing it was just another attempt to manipulate me—he called me immature.

As if protecting myself was a flaw.

As if not giving him the chance to perform sincerity in real time

meant I hadn’t grown.

But I knew better.

That wasn’t love. That was control.

When he told me, “You’re adding me to the list of people who have wronged you,”

it was as if he wanted to be the one wounded.

I told him,

“Do I think I’m a victim of you? No. You made me better.”

And he did.

Just not in the way he thinks.

He made me better

by showing me I was still carrying the belief

that love equaled self-sacrifice.

He made me better

by giving me the final mirror I needed

to stop abandoning myself

for what I believed to be love and loyalty.

He made me better

because now, I don’t just want healthy, consistent love—I require it.

And someone who treats me so inhumanely—

someone who abuses me—

does not get access to me.

Not as friends,

not as acquaintances,

not as anything.

I know what I deserve.

I know what I offer.

I now have standards and boundaries.

And I know how to walk away.

I understand now why it was so disorienting.

I was reaching for someone to steady me—and instead, I found all the places I had abandoned myself.

I'm learning how to reorient to me.

To build safety inside my own skin.

To live from center.

And stay.