Learning to Love Myself After Him

I don’t even know where to start. Maybe from the night he called after weeks of silence — like nothing ever happened. Or maybe from when I actually picked up.

I hate that part of me still wanted to hear his voice, still waited for the familiar “hey” that used to melt my anger. But that night, his voice didn’t sound like home anymore. It sounded like every reason I should’ve left sooner.

People think moving on means you’ve stopped caring. But it’s not that simple. I cared, even when I shouldn’t have. I cared until it hurt to breathe.

The thing about toxic love is that it doesn’t end clean — it lingers. In songs, in scents, in the quiet moments you pretend you’re fine.

This isn’t about him, though. Not anymore.

This is me, trying to remember who I was before I loved him — and learning how to love her again.

Healing isn’t pretty. No one tells you that it comes in waves—some days I wake up feeling free, and other days I crave the very pain I escaped from.

His name doesn’t burn anymore, but it still echoes in the songs I used to send him. Sometimes I replay them just to prove to myself that I’m stronger now.

I deleted his number months ago, yet I still remember it. I don’t even need to save it to know it by heart. Funny, right? The things we hold onto even when we swear we’ve let go.

I’m not angry anymore. I’m just learning how to exist without explaining myself, how to feel beautiful without waiting for his validation.

Loving myself is a slow, quiet kind of revenge.

It’s strange how peace feels at first — almost boring.

No chaos. No long paragraphs trying to explain why I deserve to be treated right. Just… silence.

I used to mistake silence for loneliness, but now it feels like healing.

I started doing little things for myself — taking pictures again, wearing perfume even when I’m home, making my own playlists that don’t remind me of him.

People say I’ve changed. They don’t know I just came back to myself.

I still think of him sometimes, but not with anger anymore.

More like… “thank you for teaching me what I’ll never accept again.”

I’m not fully healed, but I’m getting there — and this version of me?

She’s finally choosing herself first.

Maybe love isn’t the enemy after all.

He came quietly — no promises, no pressure, no games.

Just kindness. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything back.

He texts good morning and actually means it.

He listens — really listens — when I talk about random things like my favorite snacks or how I hate goodbyes.

And when I start to pull away, scared he’ll turn into another heartbreak,he doesn’t chase or guilt me.

He just says, “I’ll wait. I know healing takes time.”

It feels weird… being treated gently.

I keep waiting for the switch, for the moment it turns into what I ran from - but it doesn’t.

Maybe love isn’t the enemy.

Maybe it was just him.

And maybe, just maybe, I’m finally ready to be loved right.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall again.

That I’d stay safe behind my walls —no late-night calls, no butterflies, no letting someone in far enough to hurt me.

But here I am… smiling at his texts, laughing too hard at his jokes,and replaying his voice in my head when I should be asleep.

He calls me his peace.

And for the first time, I don’t feel like a burden.

He makes love sound like something I don’t have to fight for — something that can just be.

Still, a part of me trembles.

What if it’s all temporary?

What if I lose myself again trying to love someone new?

But maybe that’s what healing really is —

not being fearless, but trying anyway.

And right now, I think I’m ready to try.