L.Y.R.I.Q

She is a collection of fragmented pieces

[sheeislyriq]

Open Letter: Love, Rewritten in Equations

Dear You,

We were an equation once. Two variables, X and Y, colliding in the chaos of life, solving for each other. When we first met, we were like parallel lines suddenly bending, defying all logic to meet at an improbable intersection. I remember thinking we were the perfect solution to a complicated problem—the sum of our parts equaling something greater than we could ever be alone.

But love, like math, isn't always linear. Somewhere along the way, our once-fluid symmetry turned into a system of unsolvable equations. We multiplied joys but also divided sorrows unevenly. The variables grew too complex, and before we knew it, we were fractions of who we used to be, unable to find a common denominator.

The divorce—it felt like canceling each other out. A subtraction so absolute, it left me staring at a blank equation, trying to understand where we went wrong. Was it the miscalculation of time? The exponential growth of misunderstandings? Or was it simply that the formula we wrote for ourselves needed to be rewritten?

But here we are again, rebuilding—like solving a quadratic equation step by step, patiently untangling the roots of what we still are. The love we once had hasn’t disappeared; it’s just changed form. Love is like pi—endless, irrational, and infinitely mysterious. We can never fully solve it, but we can always keep trying.

I can feel the echoes of us in the small moments: the laughter, the shared memories, the silent understanding that even after all this time, we still exist as constants in each other’s lives. I don’t know if we’ll ever rewrite the equation perfectly or if we’re destined to be an infinite series that keeps approaching something profound but never quite reaching it.

What I do know is this: our love is not a problem to solve but a journey to explore. And whether we remain separate equations or find a way to merge our variables again, I will always carry the lessons of us. You taught me that love isn’t perfect, but it’s always worth calculating.

Here’s to solving for X, Y, and everything in between,

Always.

Lyriq

[sheeislyriq]

After a certain age, I stopped dating for proof.

Not proof that I am lovable.

Not proof that I am chosen.

Not proof that I can still attract attention or spark interest or inspire pursuit.

That season passed quietly, not out of bitterness, but out of completion.

What replaced it was something steadier.

A deeper orientation toward myself.

A knowing that my life is already inhabited.

Now I am customizing my happiness to complement my joy.

That sentence sounds soft until you understand what it costs.

It means my cup is full. Not untouched by pain. Not free of complexity. But full in the way something becomes full after years of careful tending. Full because I learned how to pour into myself without spilling everywhere. Full because I learned which rooms of my life deserve access and which ones require keys.

So when I say I am unavailable to date and start over again, I am not rejecting love.

I am rejecting the idea that connection must require me to dismantle my peace just to prove my openness.

I am no longer interested in resetting my nervous system for the sake of potential.

No longer interested in re explaining my humanity to someone who wants the benefits of intimacy without the responsibility of attunement.

No longer interested in competing for space in a life that has not made room for me.

This is not about closing doors.

It is about protecting what already exists inside them.

Because what I want now is not intensity.

It is not chaos disguised as passion.

It is not chemistry that evaporates the moment life becomes inconvenient.

What I want is someone who can hold life with me.

Not just the moments that photograph well.

Not just the versions of me that are organized, grounded, emotionally regulated, and easy to love.

But the versions that arrive during transition.

The ones shaped by grief.

The ones navigating depression or anxiety or exhaustion that does not lift just because the day requires productivity.

The ones carrying responsibility quietly.

The ones learning how to breathe again after loss.

Being seen at this level is not surface.

It is studied.

There is a difference between being known and being learned.

Being known is familiarity.

Being learned is devotion to understanding.

It is noticing the pauses between words.

It is hearing what I am saying even when I am conserving energy and choosing silence.

It is understanding that calm is something I earned, not something that came naturally.

To learn someone is to acknowledge that they did not arrive whole without history.

That who they are now is the result of choices made under pressure, adaptations built in survival, and lessons learned through consequence.

Many people say they want depth, but what they mean is access.

They want closeness without curiosity.

Softness without responsibility.

Light without shadow.

But intimacy that refuses complexity eventually becomes consumption.

And I have learned to tell the difference.

Now I move toward those who want to learn me slowly, without entitlement.

Those who understand that silence can be regulation, not rejection.

Those who recognize that my boundaries are not walls, but architecture.

When I speak of seasons, I am not talking about moods or weather.

I am talking about the real transitions of life.

The kind that alter you.

The kind that ask for more than patience and platitudes.

The seasons of death, when grief reshapes your relationship to time.

The seasons of depression, when the body moves slower than the world allows.

The seasons of anxiety, when safety becomes something you have to consciously rebuild.

The seasons of becoming a parent, of holding more responsibility than rest.

The seasons of infertility, of medical intervention, of hope paired with fear.

The seasons of watching your parents age.

The seasons of financial pressure.

The seasons of relocating your life and your sense of self.

The seasons of betrayal, when trust fractures quietly.

The seasons of recovery, when healing is not linear but persistent.

These are the waves that test connection.

Because a wave does not ask whether you are ready.

It simply arrives.

And when it does, it reveals everything.

It reveals whether someone knows how to stay present without fixing.

Whether they can tolerate discomfort without disappearing.

Whether they can offer steadiness instead of control.

Whether they know how to communicate when they are overwhelmed rather than withdrawing into silence that punishes.

This is why chemistry alone no longer impresses me.

Chemistry can ignite, but it cannot sustain.

Character is what sustains.

Structure is what holds.

Emotional maturity is what carries people through the parts of life that do not soften just because love exists.

And being held through these waves has very little to do with physical touch alone.

Being held is multidimensional.

It is being emotionally contained instead of emotionally managed.

It is knowing someone will not collapse when you are honest.

It is having your vulnerability handled with care rather than curiosity alone.

It is practical support offered before you have to ask.

It is someone remembering what overwhelms you and adjusting instinctively.

It is consistency that allows your nervous system to rest.

Being held is not needing to explain yourself repeatedly.

It is being believed the first time.

It is someone advocating for you when you are tired of advocating for yourself.

Being held is being protected from unnecessary chaos.

It is someone who does not make their healing your unpaid labor.

It is someone who understands that love requires initiative, not instruction.

It is someone who sees the problem and moves toward resolution.

Someone who notices you are stretched and says, I have it.

Someone who can be a partner rather than a passenger.

This is the kind of holding that changes a life.

Which is why I date differently now.

I am not dating for a title.

I am not dating to secure permanence as fast as possible.

I am not dating to win.

I am dating for clarity.

I am observing how someone handles reality.

How they respond to pressure.

How they speak when they are disappointed.

How they repair after harm.

How they communicate when they are tired.

How they hold themselves accountable without collapsing into defensiveness or shame.

Dating for experience is not careless.

It is conscious.

It is the willingness to learn without claiming.

To explore without performing.

To remain honest about capacity instead of promising what cannot be sustained.

And because I date from fullness, I do not confuse intensity with intimacy.

I am not building futures off potential.

I am paying attention to patterns.

This is also why trying again is not something I dismiss outright.

There are times when people meet each other without the tools they need.

Times when grief drives behavior.

Times when fear silences communication.

Times when two people love each other but do not yet know how to hold that love responsibly.

Trying again does not mean repeating the past.

It means responding to who someone is now.

But trying again only works when there is evidence of change.

Not apologies without adjustment.

Not promises without follow through.

Repair is not language.

It is behavior repeated long enough to become trust again.

And sometimes growth is real.

Sometimes it is not.

Discernment is knowing the difference without becoming cynical.

Which brings me to ghosting.

Disappearing is not healing.

It is avoidance dressed up as self care.

If someone had access to your presence, your vulnerability, your tenderness, your time, your body, your truth, then clarity is not optional.

Silence leaves people carrying questions that did not belong to them.

It creates wounds that could have been avoided with a sentence.

How you leave matters.

Because dignity matters.

And when your cup is full, you stop accepting exits that lack integrity.

You stop tolerating confusion.

You stop negotiating peace.

You stop explaining basic consideration.

But fullness does not mean isolation.

I am still open to joy.

Simple joy.

The kind that does not destabilize me.

The kind that adds softness rather than demand.

The kind that feels like laughter without effort.

Affection without anxiety.

Presence without pressure.

I still want companionship.

I still want intimacy.

I still want to be held in ways that allow me to exhale.

But now, I want alignment more than intensity.

Alignment between values and behavior.

Between words and action.

Between care and capacity.

I want someone who understands that loving through life means being able to sit in discomfort without making it someone else’s punishment.

Someone who knows how to say, I am not okay, but I am here.

Someone who knows how to ask for help.

Someone who knows how to repair without minimizing harm.

Because the deepest love is not performative.

It is practiced.

And practice looks like honesty.

It looks like structure.

It looks like communication.

It looks like boundaries that protect connection rather than suffocate it.

It looks like knowing when to stay and when to let something end cleanly.

Because neglect is quieter than hate, but far more damaging.

And I am in a season of my life where I do not guess.

I observe.

I ask.

I clarify.

I trust patterns more than promises.

I choose people who can hold life with me.

People who can hold me in more than one way.

---

## Mind Lab

Sit with these. Let them unfold slowly.

What does it mean that my cup is full, and what did it cost me to reach this place.

In what ways do I most need to be held beyond physical touch, and how do I recognize when that need is met.

How do I respond internally when life becomes heavy, and what support actually helps rather than overwhelms me.

What behaviors allow me to feel safe during transition, grief, or uncertainty.

Where have I confused intensity with intimacy, and what did that misunderstanding teach me.

If I were to try again with someone, what evidence would I need to see before trusting the possibility.

How do I want to leave people when connection ends, and what kind of clarity honors both of us.

What simple joys do I want companionship to add to my already full life.

What does alignment look like for me now, not who I was years ago.

Who in my life understands how to hold me without needing to be instructed.

[wetheurban]

Sending love to anyone who is just… tired.

Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, socially, financially.

Life is asking a lot right now.

Pause when you can. Breathe when you remember.

Give yourself space. Give yourself grace.

[sheeislyriq]

There is a kind of strength people applaud without ever asking what it cost.

The kind that looks like resilience.

The kind that sounds like “I’ve got it.”

The kind that never asks, rarely leans, and almost never falls apart in public.

Hyper-independence gets mistaken for confidence, discipline, or maturity. But more often than not, it is grief that never got the chance to speak.

Not all grief comes from death. Some grief is quieter. It lives in what did not happen. In who did not show up. In the safety that never stabilized long enough to rest inside your body.

Hyper-independence is not born from abundance. It is born from absence.

At some point, needing someone became unsafe. Asking became disappointing. Depending became embarrassing or dangerous. So you adapted. You learned to be the backup plan. The provider. The fixer. The one who figures it out no matter how heavy it gets.

That adaptation saved you. And that matters.

But what saves you in one season can slowly harden into armor in the next.

The nervous system is very honest. It does not care about appearances. It cares about survival. When connection leads to pain often enough, the body learns to limit its exposure. You stop expecting help before it can fail you. You stop asking before you can be let down. You stop hoping before hope can be taken away again.

That is not arrogance. That is grief management.

Hyper-independent people are rarely detached. They are deeply feeling. They love intensely. They care profoundly. They simply learned to carry it alone.

The grief underneath usually sounds like this:

I had to grow up too soon.

I learned to regulate myself without guidance.

I learned to soothe myself without comfort.

I learned to celebrate myself without witnesses.

I learned to grieve without support.

And eventually, you stopped noticing the weight because you got strong enough to carry it.

But strength without softness eventually turns into fatigue.

There is a quiet loneliness that lives inside hyper-independence. Not because you lack people, but because you rarely allow yourself to be held without doing something first. Support starts to feel transactional. Rest starts to feel undeserved. Help starts to feel like a threat to your autonomy rather than a relief.

You might crave intimacy while simultaneously bracing against it.

You might want partnership but feel safest when you are fully self-contained.

You might say you value connection while subconsciously preparing for disappointment.

That tension is not a character flaw. It is unresolved grief asking to be acknowledged.

Grief wants recognition, not erasure.

And healing does not mean becoming dependent. That is the fear. That if you soften, you will lose yourself. That if you lean, you will collapse. That if you trust, you will be abandoned again.

But healing hyper-independence is not about swinging to the other extreme. It is about learning interdependence. It is about discernment. It is about letting support exist without suspicion.

It is about realizing that needing does not make you weak. It makes you human.

The work is subtle. It looks like allowing small moments of being helped without explaining yourself. It looks like asking for support before you are at your breaking point. It looks like letting someone show up imperfectly and staying present instead of withdrawing into control.

It also looks like grieving what you never received.

The childhood safety.

The consistent reassurance.

The partner who stayed.

The parent who protected.

The community that held you without conditions.

That grief deserves space. Not to keep you stuck, but to free you from constantly rebuilding your life around its absence.

Because ungrieved loss turns into rigidity.

And grieved loss turns into wisdom.

There is a difference between being capable and being closed.

Hyper-independence often says, “I don’t need anyone.”

But the truth underneath is usually, “I learned not to expect anyone.”

And that distinction changes everything.

You are not broken for surviving the way you did. You are not wrong for becoming self-sufficient. You are not behind because you struggle to receive.

But you do deserve a life where strength and softness coexist. Where support does not feel like a threat. Where love does not require self-erasure. Where you are not always the one holding everything together.

Hyper-independence was never the goal. It was the bridge.

And bridges are meant to be crossed, not lived on.

If this reflection resonates, take a moment to ask yourself:

Where did I learn that needing was unsafe?

What grief have I minimized because I had to keep going?

What would it feel like to be supported without earning it?

You do not have to answer all at once. Grief moves at the speed of safety.

But acknowledging it is how the armor starts to loosen.

[sheeislyriq]

Let’s dig into **slow burn dating** as a lived experience, not a theory. Not a rulebook. Not a performance. But a way of moving that prioritizes truth over outcome.

Slow burn dating starts with **how you enter**, not where you are trying to go.

### Stage one: Presence before projection

The first stage of slow burn dating is simple and radical. You meet someone and you resist the urge to decide who they are going to be in your life.

Instead of asking

Is this my person

Is this going somewhere

Can I see a future

You ask

How do I feel around them

Do I feel relaxed or on edge

Am I curious or performing

Example:

You go on a first date. It is not fireworks. It is not flat either. You laugh. You talk. You leave feeling grounded instead of wired. Slow burn says that is worth returning to. Fast dating culture would dismiss it as boring. Slow burn recognizes safety and ease as information.

At this stage, you are not auditioning each other for roles. You are witnessing energy.

### Stage two: Consistency without possession

This is where many people confuse slow burn with lack of interest. It is not.

Slow burn shows up in small, repeatable ways.

Texts that are thoughtful but not constant.

Plans that are made and kept.

Interest that feels steady instead of spiking and disappearing.

Example:

You see each other once a week. Sometimes twice. There is no pressure to escalate intimacy quickly. No guilt if life gets busy. No silent tests. You are learning each other’s rhythms instead of trying to merge lives prematurely.

This stage builds trust quietly. And trust is what allows desire to deepen without anxiety.

### Stage three: Emotional availability without definition pressure

Here is where titles start knocking on the door.

What are we

Where is this going

What does this mean

Slow burn does not avoid these conversations. It just does not rush them.

Instead of using titles to create security, slow burn asks you to notice whether security is already present.

Example:

You feel considered. You are not guessing if you matter. You feel emotionally safe bringing things up. You are not afraid of being honest. At this point, the experience itself is answering the questions that titles usually try to solve.

Titles are not bad. But premature titles can create false certainty before compatibility has been tested.

### Titles versus lived experience

Titles can be comforting. They can also be misleading.

You can be someone’s girlfriend and feel lonely.

You can be untitled and feel deeply chosen.

Slow burn teaches you to prioritize **how it feels to be in connection** over what the connection is called.

Living in the moment does not mean being careless. It means being attentive.

Are you being respected

Are your boundaries honored

Is communication clear

Is effort mutual

If those answers are yes, the absence of a title is not a problem. It is simply timing.

### Stage four: Intentional deepening

Slow burn naturally deepens when two people choose to lean in together.

This is when conversations expand.

Values are discussed.

Conflict is navigated instead of avoided.

Affection becomes more embodied.

Example:

You start sharing fears, not just highlights. You see how the other person handles discomfort. You feel safe enough to disagree without fearing abandonment. This is intimacy that is built, not rushed.

At this point, a title feels less like a question and more like a reflection of what already exists.

### Dating without expectations versus dating without intention

This distinction matters.

Dating without expectations does not mean dating without standards.

It means releasing timelines, fantasies, and outcome obsession.

Expectations sound like

They should text this often

They should want this by now

This should look like that

Slow burn replaces expectations with **observations**.

What is actually happening

How am I responding to it

Is this nourishing or draining

Intentional dating is about choosing awareness over control.

### Why slow burn protects your heart

When you date with expectations, every interaction becomes a test.

When you date with presence, every interaction becomes information.

Slow burn allows you to opt in instead of cling.

To choose instead of chase.

To grow attraction alongside clarity.

It also gives you permission to walk away without devastation when something does not align. Because you were never gripping the future in the first place.

### The quiet power of slow burn love

Slow burn love does not announce itself loudly.

It settles in.

It expands gradually.

It feels earned.

There is less anxiety.

Less guessing.

Less proving.

And when it becomes real, it does not feel like a leap.

It feels like a natural next step.

Because you were never dating the idea of forever.

You were dating the truth of the moment.

[achillesinhighheels]

[thevalhalla80s]

I'm Sorry...

[sheeislyriq]

Dear You: The One Who Matches My Pour

A Love Letter for the One Who Feeds Me Too

(by Lyriq M.)

Dear You,

I won’t say I’m waiting —

because baby, I’ve been becoming.

Becoming a woman who knows her capacity,

who can lead a vision, plan the pivot, run the numbers, book the flights,

and still come home craving forehead kisses,

slow rubs,

and silence with someone who knows how to hold it.

You should know this about me:

I’m the kind of woman who shows up.

Who builds legacy between ballet drop-offs and brand deals,

who maps out marketing plans while braiding her daughter’s hair,

who makes space for healing and strategy in the same sentence.

But even I…

even I want to be led sometimes.

To be told, “Close the laptop. The reservations are already set.”

To have someone study me the way I study everyone else.

To feel chosen without prompting, loved without reminding,

and supported in ways I don’t have to build a deck for.

I don’t want to be everything.

I want to be something soft,

something sacred,

something seen.

I want to share the weight, not just the wins.

Let’s talk responsibility.

I don’t want to do it all, and I don’t expect you to either.

But what I do expect is accountability.

Shared check-ins, calendar syncs, heart syncs.

Let’s both show up for the budget, the babies, the brainstorms.

Let’s build something with rhythm —

your strength and my softness in harmony.

My leadership and your follow-through braided together like locs that don’t come undone.

I want a partner who knows we don’t just split the bills —

we split the emotional labor too.

You love me?

Then study me.

Surprise me.

Schedule my hair appointment just because you know I like my edges laid before an event.

Put my favorite pen next to my journal on a rough day.

Bring me sunflowers on a Wednesday, not because it’s a holiday, but because I’ve been carrying too much.

Send me an Airbnb link with a caption: “You’ve been on go too long. Let’s reset.”

Take my phone and say, “You be the content today — I got the camera.”

I want the kind of partnership that respects my grind…

but protects my glow.

That doesn’t just let me be soft — it encourages it.

I want you to be gentle and consistent,

to be creative with me — not just in bed, but in business.

Dream with me.

Light candles with me.

Build out the vision board and the back end.

Let’s not just fall in love — let’s walk in it.

Let’s choreograph this thing.

You pick the playlist, I’ll grab the passport.

You make the plan, I’ll pack the overnight bag.

We can still be spontaneous — but baby, let it be intentional.

I want real partnership.

The kind where no one’s pouring from an empty cup,

because we refill each other before we even ask.

So when you come…

Come correct.

Come covered.

Come willing.

Come curious.

Come healed — or at least, ready to grow without weaponizing your wounds.

I’m not asking for a fairy tale.

Just someone who knows that soft girls can lead, too —

and still want to be kissed on the shoulder after a long day.

If you’re her, if you’re him, if you’re them —

whoever you are:

Come match my pour.

I’m ready.

— Lyriq

[sheeislyriq]

She said I’ll hold you through the heartbreak and burn the building down with you

[sheeislyriq]

[wetheurban]

Start where you are. Use what you have.

[sheeislyriq]

How do you date again after someone you trusted with everything lied to your face, manipulated your love, cheated behind your back, and emotionally abused you with no remorse? How do you open yourself up to love again when the last person you let into your soul used your heart like it was a storage unit for their brokenness—coming and going as they pleased, never staying long enough to clean up the mess they made?

She didn’t love you. Not really. She loved the access. She loved what you did for her, how safe you made her feel, how loyal you were, how deeply you cared. She loved being able to fall apart in front of you and know you’d hold the pieces. But when it came to reciprocating? To loving you the same way in return? She couldn’t—or worse, she wouldn’t. She lied effortlessly. She cried when she got caught, but not because she was sorry—because her power was threatened. She manipulated every situation to make herself the victim, flipping the narrative so you’d feel guilty for even asking questions. And when you told her how she hurt you, she made you feel like it was your fault. Like you were the one doing too much. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too intense. But the truth is, you were just loving her fully, and she didn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty.

She cheated in every way—physically, emotionally, spiritually. And she tried to cover it up with half-hearted attention and false intimacy, saying she wanted more with you, when in reality she wanted what you offered without giving anything in return. She loved you in private and disappeared in public. She wanted to keep you close enough to benefit from you but far enough to avoid commitment. She let you carry the weight of the relationship alone while she entertained distractions, and then came back to you like nothing ever happened.

And what it did to you? It wasn’t just heartbreak. It was trauma. Real, physical, emotional, psychological trauma. Your nervous system became wired for survival. You started waking up in the middle of the night with your heart pounding. You stopped sleeping well, because your body no longer felt safe. You were constantly scanning for danger, waiting for the next lie, the next betrayal. You couldn’t relax, even when things seemed fine. Your body held the memory of every time she betrayed your trust, every time she left you hanging, every time she came back with more excuses. You stopped eating. Or maybe you overate to cope. You cried in secret because you didn’t want anyone to know how deeply it was affecting you. And when people asked what happened, you smiled and said, “I’m okay,” when you were barely functioning.

Your mind became foggy. You second-guessed yourself constantly. You replayed conversations over and over again trying to find the moment you missed, the clue you ignored, the lie you let slide. You questioned your worth. You questioned your sanity. You started to believe maybe you were the problem. Maybe you were too much. And in the middle of all that pain, you still found yourself defending her. You still tried to hold space for her trauma, her triggers, her past. You still thought, “Maybe if I love her better, she’ll stop hurting me.”

But she never stopped. And she never planned to. She wasn’t confused. She wasn’t broken. She was selfish. She was calculated. She saw the way you loved and decided to benefit from it without ever rising to meet you there. And now you're left with the pieces. The pieces of your identity, your trust, your peace, your spirit. You’re left trying to remember who you were before her. Trying to rebuild a sense of self after being made to feel invisible. Trying to feel whole again after being emotionally starved.

And still, people tell you to date. To get back out there. To “move on.” As if it’s that easy. As if you haven’t been fundamentally changed by what she did. As if your body doesn’t still hold tension. As if your sleep isn’t still disrupted. As if you don’t still hear her voice in the back of your mind when someone tries to love you differently. You’re not afraid of love. You’re afraid of getting used again. You’re afraid of ignoring your gut again. You’re afraid of building a home in someone just to realize you were never safe there.

So no—you’re not ready to date. Not right now. Because healing isn’t just about letting go of her. It’s about reclaiming yourself. It’s about learning to trust your intuition again. It’s about grieving the version of you who tolerated all of that pain. It’s about rebuilding your relationship with peace. With your body. With your boundaries. With your voice. It’s about learning how to feel safe inside yourself again before inviting anyone else in.

She may have loved you in convenience. She may have taken from you in silence. But you? You survived it. You are standing on the other side of a relationship that was killing you slowly. You are doing the work. You are facing the truth. And when you do date again—when that time comes—it won’t be from a place of survival. It will be from a place of wholeness. Of self-respect. Of clarity. And this time, you won’t just look for someone who loves you—you’ll choose someone who knows how to care for you the way you care for others.

But until then? You’re enough. You’re healing. And you’re no longer shrinking for someone who never deserved you in the first place.

[sheeislyriq]

[sheeislyriq]

[sheeislyriq]

[sheeislyriq]

LHow do you even *think* about dating again after that kind of pain? Be honest. After that kind of betrayal—how do you sit across from somebody new, smile politely, listen to them talk about their favorite color, when your body still flinches at the sound of a lie? When your skin still remembers what it felt like to be touched by someone who only showed up to use you?

They didn’t just break your heart—they made you feel *crazy* for having one. That’s the part that people don’t understand. It wasn’t just the cheating. It wasn’t just the lies. It was the *gaslighting*. The mind games. The way they could look at you—crying, begging, unraveling in front of them—and still act like *you* were the problem. The way they turned every confrontation into confusion, every question into an accusation, every truth into a trap.

You watched yourself fade. You watched yourself get smaller and smaller, trying not to rock the boat, trying to be “understanding,” trying to love them better—hoping that if you were just a little more patient, a little more loyal, a little less emotional, maybe they’d *finally* show up for you the way you showed up for them. But they didn’t. And the sick part is… they *knew* they weren’t going to. They knew from the start. You were just the next soft place to land while they figured themselves out—again.

And you gave *everything*. Your time. Your peace. Your body. Your home. You shared secrets, dreams, your past, your future. You introduced them to your *world*. You gave them access to your kids, your space, your softness, your silence. You forgave things you never thought you’d forgive. You accepted apologies you never really got. You held down a house while they were emotionally homeless. You *mothered* someone who was supposed to be your partner.

And what did they do?

Lied to your face.

Used your insecurities against you.

Slept next to you at night while texting someone else.

Told you it was all in your head.

Told you to “let it go.”

Told you “you’re too much” while never admitting they were never enough.

You cried alone. You screamed into pillows. You stayed in the bathroom too long because you didn’t want the kids to hear you breaking. You walked around the house smiling like everything was fine, while your insides were shattered glass. You begged God for signs. You begged your spirit to hold on. You looked at yourself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman staring back.

And now people have the *audacity* to ask you why you’re single? Why you’re guarded? Why you flinch when someone gets too close? Why you don’t trust anyone? Because the last time you did, it almost *killed* you. Not physically—but emotionally, mentally, spiritually. You were a shell of yourself. Walking, talking, breathing, but not *living*.

The truth is, you’re scared. Not of love, but of repeating the same mistake. Of falling for another liar in lover’s clothing. Of ignoring the red flags because they smell like your childhood. Of confusing chemistry with safety. Of confusing *urgency* with *intimacy*. You’re afraid of getting close to someone and realizing too late that they only liked your light but never planned to keep it lit.

You’re not bitter. You’re *traumatized*. You’ve been through emotional war. You gave the kind of love that heals, to someone who had no intention of healing. And now? You’re in recovery. You’re picking up pieces they didn’t even try to put back. You’re trying to love yourself through the damage they left behind.

So no—you don’t want to date. You don’t want to “see where things go.” You don’t want to start over. You want peace. You want safety. You want to wake up without wondering if today is the day they finally tell the truth. You want to go to sleep knowing you’re not being made a fool of. You want to laugh without guilt. You want to be held without calculating the cost.

You want someone who doesn’t make love feel like a competition.

Someone who doesn’t punish you for your vulnerability.

Someone who doesn’t exploit your empathy.

Someone who doesn’t try to make you earn their respect.

Someone who doesn’t mistake your forgiveness for weakness.

But until then, you’re staying right here. With yourself. In your healing. In your solitude. Because loving them almost destroyed you. And this time, you refuse to let love feel like survival.

You’ll never beg again.

You’ll never explain your worth again.

You’ll never stay quiet just to keep someone from leaving.

If they can’t love you *loudly, honestly, and fully*, they can go.

Because the version of you who tolerated all that pain?

She deserved *so much more*.

And the version of you who walked away?

She’s never looking back.

[wetheurban]

Take your vitamin D. Take your magnesium. Go to therapy. Prioritize hydration. Make a daily to-do list. Keep your space clean. Wear sunscreen. Meditate, journal, stretch. Focus on what you can control. Apply actions to intentions. Give yourself grace. Above all, love yourself.