The Collectors

October 16, 2025

Author’s Note

This piece isn’t just about him.

We were both collectors—just of different things for different reasons.

This essay is about the part of me that once believed my worth was proven through suffering.

For years, I mistook endurance for love, loyalty for silence, and pain for proof of devotion.

It wasn’t weakness—it was conditioning.

Family legacy, my mother, culture, and gender all taught me that love meant staying, no matter the cost.

So when red flags appeared, I didn’t run.

I collected them—thinking each one made me stronger, more loyal, more worthy.

But that’s not love. That’s survival.

The work now is to see red flags as information, not invitations—

to stop proving worth through pain,

and to remember that I was never meant to earn love through suffering.

If you see yourself in this,

you’re not broken.

You were just taught to collect the wrong things.

The Collectors

He was a collector—

of cars and bikes, museum-quality and road-ready.

He loved sleek lines, engines that purred, the faster the better.

Not too long into our relationship,

I realized he had collected me too.

I felt like a trophy.

Not because I thought I was better than anyone,

but because that’s how he treated me—

a ‘museum-quality bike’ he brought out for display,

wore proudly on his arm at Walmart,

and loved when other men stared at me.

Then he’d tuck me away again,

until the next time he wanted to play.

He was a collector of fast cars, shiny motorcycles, and me.

But lately I’ve been thinking—

he wasn’t the only collector in our story.

I was collecting too.

Not cars. Not trophies.

Red flags I pretended were beige.

I pinned them to the walls of my heart

like ribbons of valor—

proof of endurance,

patience, loyalty,

and my willingness to suffer

in the name of love.

And I displayed them proudly—

to everyone but him.

See? I’d tell myself. Look how much I can take.

Look how loyal I am.

Look how well I love the unloving.

If I love hard enough I will be worthy and he will stay.

Each time I threatened to leave

because he’d pushed too far,

he tossed out more red flags like confetti,

and I snatched them up with enthusiasm—

another chance to prove my devotion.

I see that now.

I chose a bouquet of red flags rather than leave.

This is one of the fault lines I’m reinforcing,

one of the places still under reconstruction.

A work in progress—

but at least now I know

what I’m working on.