Learning to Love Myself

"You’re strange," he said, his voice laced with both concern and a touch of exasperation. "You wouldn’t return to a salon that ruined your haircut. You wouldn’t drink a beverage you found disgusting. You wouldn’t wear shoes that hurt your feet no matter how beautiful they were. Yet, you allow someone to hurt you, time and time again."

His words hit me harder than I expected. It was as though he had voiced the thoughts I had been avoiding for so long. I often prided myself on being resilient, on weathering storms in silence, believing that enduring pain was somehow proof of love. But now, I realized that all those justifications had been little more than self-deception.

That night, as I lay awake in my bed, staring at the cracks on the ceiling, his words echoed in my mind. Why was I so willing to walk away from small discomforts—a bad haircut, an unpalatable drink, a pair of ill-fitting shoes—but incapable of letting go of a love that had caused me so much pain? Was it fear of loneliness? Or was it because I had convinced myself that this was all I deserved?

The next day, while cleaning out my closet, I stumbled upon a blue dress. It was one of my favorites, yet I hadn’t worn it in years. The reason came flooding back to me: "You look so plain in blue," he had said once. I had laughed it off at the time, but his words lingered, shaping my choices without me realizing it. Since then, the dress had remained hidden, tucked away in the farthest corner of my wardrobe.

Holding the dress now, I felt a surge of emotion. How many other small pieces of myself had I hidden away because of him? How many times had I dimmed my light just to make someone else comfortable?

That evening, I made a decision. I put on the blue dress, did my hair the way I liked, and stepped out. I walked to a quaint café I used to visit often before our relationship consumed my world. Sitting in a corner by the window, sipping my favorite coffee, I felt a sense of liberation. The world hadn’t changed, but something inside me had shifted.

From that moment on, I began a journey back to myself. I started saying no to things that didn’t bring me joy. I stopped making excuses for behavior that hurt me. I learned to set boundaries—not out of anger or spite, but out of love for myself.

One day, he reached out to me, confused by my newfound distance. "You’re different," he said, almost accusingly. "You’re not the person I knew."

"I’ve learned to love myself," I replied, my voice steady. "And I’ve realized that love shouldn’t feel like a constant battle. It should uplift, not tear down."

He didn’t have much to say after that. Maybe he understood, or maybe he didn’t. It didn’t matter anymore. For the first time, I wasn’t seeking his approval.

In the weeks and months that followed, I discovered how liberating it was to be my own source of happiness. I revisited old hobbies, reconnected with friends, and even made peace with solitude. I learned that letting go wasn’t an act of weakness, but a declaration of self-respect.

True love, I realized, isn’t about enduring pain or sacrificing yourself for another. It’s about mutual respect, joy, and growth. And sometimes, the most profound act of love is choosing to walk away from someone who no longer sees your worth, so you can rediscover it for yourself.

As I sat in that café again months later, wearing the same blue dress, I smiled at the person I had become. Stronger. Wiser. Free.