Cliché as it may sound, but this year was anything but easy — perhaps the hardest year of my life. I once thought the pandemic year was my limit, but it turns out this year was heavier in ways I never imagined. I spent months hiding the pain behind inside jokes, pretending I was fine while laughing with people, keeping up a cheerful image through social media posts. But at some point, I realized the grief I’d been carrying for so long could no longer stay caged…
When I was offered solace and promises, I chose to love and committed myself — like in Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran’s “The Joker and the Queen.” The idealist in me thought I saw a love that went beyond what the world considers ideal — the kind that’s gentle and real and doesn’t need grand gestures.
For a long while, I always chose to love. Even after being told I didn’t conform to their definition of beautiful, I still chose to love and stayed committed. Even after being called “baduy,” I still chose to love and stayed committed. Even after hearing painful words from their folks, I chose to love and stayed committed.
Even when it felt like the little things that mattered to me didn’t matter, I still chose to love and stayed committed. Even when they said they would do things but failed to follow through, I still chose to love and stayed committed. Even when I felt unloved most of the time, I still chose to love them.
For a long while, I always chose to love and I always stayed. Because I valued our pinky promise, no matter how childish that may sound.
I chose them without reservations, more times than they will ever realize.
I chose to love despite everything — but in the end, I was labeled as not understanding enough, not thinking clearly, insecure, overthinking, unreasonable, critical, a source of stress, “projecting my childhood trauma” and ungrateful… and I believed all of these. For so long, I kept convincing myself that they were simply struggling, that they just needed more time for themselves. I supported everything they were pursuing, yet somehow I felt… forgotten.
And somehow, even that feeling — feeling forgotten — felt wrong to have. As if I had no right to it. As if I should still be grateful simply because, in some way, they were still there. I made myself believe I was being selfish, that I was only thinking about what I could get. But all I ever asked for was to feel like I wasn’t forgotten. Just that kind of reassurance — the kind that reminds you your presence matters, the kind that proves your commitment to each other.
I never asked for material things or grand gestures. I never demanded too much time or constant presence. I just wanted to feel loved, to feel that I was not alone, to feel that I was not just “another woman” in their life who could be “set aside” because they had more important things to do—to feel chosen the way I chose them. I silenced my own needs because I wanted to understand their situation. It was draining, but I stayed—all because of love.
Yet somehow, wanting reassurance made me feel like I was asking for too much, like I didn’t deserve what I hoped for. I felt so pathetic. I was even told that I only wanted love because I was “after the feeling of being loved”, not the person himself. I began believing that I was hindering their growth and their dreams, because they said that was the “nature” of a woman. I believed it when I was called critical, without them realizing that their remarks about my appearance and worth were the very reasons I felt that way in the first place.
I lost count of how many times I explained myself, only to be dismissed, told I was ungrateful, told I never understood their struggles simply because we came from “different worlds.” But the truth was: I was the one who was never understood.
And I only fully realized that after I finally disconnected from them.
I even tried to share examples—people whom I observed showed how they give reassurance in small ways—but I was still misunderstood. Instead of seeing my intention, they took it as a comparison. Again, all I ever asked for was reassurance.
After what happened, I thought it had awakened the man-hater in me again. But after some time of self-reflection, I realized that I have some guy friends who speak calmly, who are reliable, who are one-woman men, and who approach relationships with care and commitment.
I also realized, perhaps, that the disgust I feel toward men now—the thought of not engaging myself with another man again, the thought of never settling down or getting married—was simply the urge to protect myself and to never allow myself to settle for less, and that I had mistaken it for the former. I don’t want to experience that kind of heartbreak anymore. I don’t want to feel the heaviness in my heart to the point of not functioning well, to the point of not being able to move. I don’t want to cry out loud alone again. I don’t want to fall asleep questioning myself for having expectations when all I was ever asking for was reassurance. I don’t want to cave in again and wait for them to care. I don’t want that to happen anymore.
This year taught me—through people who truly felt heaven-sent—to stop choosing those who can’t choose me. To stop choosing love at the expense of myself and to finally choose me. These people helped me see what I had silently endured for so long in the name of love—the self-gaslighting, the guilt, the moments of crying in public spaces because the pain was too heavy to contain. They made me understand that all the feelings I once thought were wrong to have were, in fact, valid and understandable. They helped me accept that love is not supposed to feel like begging for the things that should come naturally. And if it does, then it isn’t love sent from heaven.
Some of my friends helped me realize that it’s always easier for others to label you as “ungrateful” than to confront the truth: that they only ever gave crumbs — just enough attention to keep you around, but never the willingness to give you what you truly deserve. This was never about material things; it was about reassurance, which somehow felt like too much to ask. For the longest time, I was told that I focused only on what hadn’t done, that I paid too much attention to mistakes, and that I wasn’t grateful for what they could offer within their capacity. I wasn’t looking for perfection, because nobody’s perfect, right? I was looking for consistency. Honestly, I was grateful for the material things and presents given. But I’ve learned that more than anything tangible, the greatest gift anyone can offer in a relationship is reassurance. And that was all I was ever asking for.
Everyday since I finally spoke up about what I had endured for so long, I’ve been thanking the heaven for the people who reminded me that reassurance is a natural part of any relationship. And if it isn’t there, then maybe I simply wasn’t in the right place. That I shouldn’t cling to someone’s potential, but accept the reality right in front of me. Good riddance, maybe.
This year may have been heartbreaking — but it was also a year of clarity, awakening, and the beginning of choosing myself. A reminder of how far I can go, how much I can endure in the name of love. And somehow, I am proud of myself — proud that I was capable of loving deeply, of enduring, of staying. But I’m also a little wiser now…
I hope to never receive an effort they call love, only for them to admit in the end that they were just forcing it. I hope to never receive an effort they call love, only to be told that it felt like a chore. I hope to never receive half-hearted efforts that they call love. I hope to never again receive a love that feels like a chore to give.
I hope to never again receive insincere apologies—to never receive a “sorry” offered only to end the conversation, without any understanding of the impact of what they did, and while convincing me that I was wrong to feel hurt.
I hope to never experience that kind of pain again. I hope to never ignore the signs the first time they show. I hope to never allow myself to stay when my gut is telling me to let go. I hope to never allow myself to endure just for them to realize my worth. I hope to never mistake love as something that has to be weathered just for them to care. I hope to never allow myself to be taken for granted again.
I hope to never again allow myself to stay in the dark like a shadow. I hope to never again settle for less than I deserve.
I don’t know if I will ever find love again, or if it will ever find me in this lifetime. But for now, I am taking all the time I need to restore the peace of my solitude—to process what needs to be worked on, to grieve, to feel what I need to feel, and to release.
And maybe next time — just maybe — without needing long explanations, without the ache, without having to break my own heart just to be understood, without making myself small, without setting aside the little things that matter to me — someone will finally know how to hold my love with care. And when that happens, my heart can finally rest.
