Frowning Upon My Vows

There was a time when I believed that the promises I made—especially to others—were sacred. Unbreakable. That the weight of a vow, once given, should never shift, regardless of time, change, or personal cost. I saw integrity as synonymous with endurance: if I said I would stay, I stayed. If I said I would love, I loved—through pain, through silence, even through emptiness.

But there’s something no one warns you about when you make those vows. No one tells you that the version of yourself who made them won’t always be the version who has to live them out.

I made promises to people who only loved the parts of me that fit into their world. I stayed loyal to ideas, to roles, to labels that never fully fit. I even made vows to myself in times of fear—vows like “never let anyone in again,” “always be the strong one,” or “don’t ask for too much.”

At the time, they felt like truths. Like survival strategies. But in retrospect, they were defences disguised as commitments.

Years passed, and I found myself increasingly disconnected—not just from others, but from my own spirit. I kept wondering why the things that once felt like loyalty now felt like chains. Why I was becoming resentful, tired, and quiet in rooms where I used to be vibrant.

Then, one day, something strange happened. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—not the kind of glance you throw while brushing your teeth, but a real, lingering look. And what I saw wasn’t peace. It wasn’t pride or contentment. It was something heavier. A frown, slight but unmistakable, sitting right beneath my eyes. Not because I was angry. Not even because I was sad.

I was tired of living inside a version of my life I had outgrown.

I was frowning upon my own vows.

It felt like betrayal to even think that. Weren’t vows supposed to be about devotion, consistency, virtue? Weren’t we supposed to admire the ones who stayed? The ones who kept their word no matter what?

But the truth is, not all vows are worthy of being kept forever. Some are made in moments of desperation or youth or fear. And sometimes, honoring a vow made in the past means betraying the person you’ve become in the present.

It took time—months, really—to untangle the guilt from the growth. I didn’t walk away from every promise, but I did begin to rewrite some. I redefined what loyalty meant. I let go of relationships where my silence was mistaken for stability. I forgave the younger me who had done the best she could with what little she knew.

And in all of that undoing, something beautiful emerged: a new kind of vow.

A vow to not shrink myself to make others comfortable.

A vow to evolve, even if that evolution scares people.

A vow to love honestly, but never at the expense of my truth.

A vow to stop frowning at my reflection, and start recognising my growth.

I still believe in commitment. But now I believe more deeply in aligned commitment—one that grows with you, not against you. One that doesn’t ask you to betray yourself in order to remain “honourable.”

Sometimes, the most sacred vow you can make is to revisit the old ones with grace and courage—and walk away from the ones that no longer serve the person you’ve fought to become.

Because the promises that matter most are the ones that grow with you.

And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is let go, so you can begin again—with clearer eyes, and a freer heart.