No Longer Available for Half-Love, Half-Truths, and Half-Healed People
I’m done shrinking. I’m done explaining. I’m finally becoming.
There’s a version of me I no longer recognize. The girl who waited. Who watered dead things. Who stayed in places where her spirit starved, just to feel like she belonged somewhere. She lived on crumbs and called it connection. She mistook pain for proof that it was real. She kept showing up for people who never truly saw her. And for the longest time, that felt like love.
It wasn’t. It was survival. It was pattern. It was wounding dressed as devotion. But something inside me began to shift. Slowly. Then all at once. I stopped needing people to call it love in order to believe I was lovable.
Now, I am no longer available. Not for half-loves that drain me. Not for half-truths wrapped in charm and good intentions. Not for half-healed people who want company but not accountability. I’ve outgrown the role of the emotional contortionist. The peacekeeper. The fixer. The good girl who never asked for too much. I’m not her anymore.
Becoming isn’t loud. It’s quiet refusals. Small boundaries. It’s choosing yourself when no one else claps for it. It’s walking away—not out of bitterness, but out of clarity. It’s learning that healing isn’t proving your worth. It’s realizing you never had to.
I used to believe that if I just loved people enough, they would change. They would stay. They would finally give back what I kept giving away. But now I know: Love doesn’t rescue. It reveals. And not everyone is meant to stay for the becoming.
I am becoming someone who doesn’t chase. Who doesn’t explain her heart like it’s a courtroom defense. Who doesn’t apologize for having standards that protect her peace. Let them call it selfish. I call it sacred. I’ve spent enough years bleeding for people who never even said thank you. I won’t do that anymore.
The truth is, I had to burn parts of me that loved conditionally, because I had been taught that love meant proving, pleasing, over-giving. But I see it now. The way I was trained to tolerate breadcrumbs while calling it a feast. The way I silenced my gut to preserve false harmony. Becoming means I’ve stopped gaslighting myself. If it doesn’t feel like love, it isn’t. If it makes me doubt my worth, it’s not home. If I have to break myself to fit, it’s not my place.
I am no longer available for:
People who mistake my kindness for weakness.
Relationships that require me to abandon myself to be accepted.
Conversations that revolve around fixing what’s wrong with me.
Spaces that celebrate silence over truth.
Cycles that keep me small so others can stay comfortable.
I used to make myself so easy to love that I forgot to make myself impossible to misuse. Not anymore.
What I’m becoming is not harder. It’s softer—with boundaries. Fiercer—with grace. Clearer—with love that starts from within. I am not building walls. I am planting gardens. But not everyone is invited to walk through them. Because healing also means discernment. Not everyone who knocks deserves entry. And that’s okay.
I no longer entertain people who only love me when I’m easy. I no longer explain myself to people committed to misunderstanding me. I no longer keep spaces in my life for those who disappear when things get real. I used to call that forgiveness. But now I call it self-abandonment.
The version of me that stayed too long, loved too loudly, and asked for too little, she’s not weak. She’s sacred. She’s the reason I’m here now. But she’s no longer running the show. I thank her. I love her. But I’m building a life she never believed was possible.
The new me?
She walks away with love still in her heart.
She doesn’t wait for closure that never comes.
She doesn’t shrink to make others feel big.
She doesn’t pour into what leaks.
She’s not cold. She’s clear. She’s not heartless. She’s healed. She doesn’t need to be chosen. She chooses.
And if you’re here too—learning to choose yourself, letting go of what hurts, standing in your truth after years of silence—know this:
You’re not alone. You’re not selfish. You’re becoming.
And it’s messy. Sacred. Uncomfortable. Beautiful.
But most of all… it’s yours.
So no, I’m not angry. I’m just no longer available. And that might be the most loving thing I’ve ever done for myself.
About the Creator
Zanele Nyembe
For the ones who stay strong in silence—I see you. I write what others are afraid to say out loud. If you've ever felt invisible, abandoned, or quietly powerful, this space is yours.
Keep reading
More stories from Zanele Nyembe and writers in Motivation and other communities.
When Loving Him Meant Losing Me
I used to believe that love meant fighting. Fighting through the pain. Through the tears. Through the disappointments. I thought that if I could just hold on long enough, if I could forgive one more time, if I could believe in him a little harder, he would change. He would finally show up the way I needed him to. He never did.
By Zanele Nyembe8 months ago in Motivation
One Hard Thing
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: You have the number, you know your schedule- you’ve even picked out the perfect day and time to make this appointment. Shoot, you’ve even picked out alternative days and times just in case their schedules can’t accommodate you!
By Taylor Rigsbya day ago in Motivation
Title: The Day I Stopped Waiting for a Miracle
Not to me. Other people were talented. Other people were confident. Other people had connections, money, or luck. I had excuses. Every morning, I woke up with a list of things I wanted to do and a longer list of reasons I couldn’t do them. I wanted to study more, but I was too tired. I wanted to start a business, but I didn’t have money. I wanted to change my life, but I didn’t know where to begin. So I waited. I waited for motivation. I waited for opportunity. I waited for a miracle. Years passed that way. One night, while scrolling on my phone, I saw a quote that made me angry: “Your future depends on what you do today, not tomorrow.” I didn’t like it because it was true. My life wasn’t bad because of bad luck. It was bad because I kept choosing comfort over growth. I chose sleep over discipline. I chose fear over action. I chose excuses over effort. That night, something inside me broke — but in a good way. I asked myself a painful question: “What if no miracle is coming?” What if the miracle was supposed to be me? The next morning, I didn’t feel motivated. I still felt tired. I still felt afraid. But I did something different. I started small. I woke up thirty minutes earlier. I read ten pages of a book. I wrote down one goal. That was it. No dramatic transformation. No instant success. Just one small promise to myself. The first week was hard. My mind tried to pull me back into my old habits. “Why are you trying?” “This won’t change anything.” “You’ll fail anyway.” But I kept going. Every day, I did something uncomfortable: Studied when I wanted to quit. Worked when I felt lazy. Learned when I felt stupid. Slowly, something strange happened. My confidence grew — not because I succeeded, but because I showed up. I realized motivation doesn’t come before action. It comes after. I used to wait to feel ready. Now I moved even when I wasn’t ready. Months later, people started asking me: “How did you change so much?” They thought I had discovered some secret formula. The truth was simple: I stopped waiting for the perfect moment and started using the imperfect one. I still failed. I still struggled. I still doubted myself. But now, I failed forward instead of standing still. One day, I met a man who changed my perspective forever. He was older, with tired eyes and rough hands. We talked about life, and he said something I will never forget: “Regret is heavier than hard work.” He told me about his dreams — dreams he never followed. Businesses he never started. Skills he never learned. Not because he couldn’t, but because he waited too long. “I thought I had time,” he said. “Now time has me.” That sentence haunted me. I imagined myself at his age, full of regret, wishing I had tried. That fear became my fuel. I began to treat every day like a brick. One brick doesn’t look like much, but brick by brick, a house is built. Some days, I only placed one brick. Other days, I placed five. But I never stopped building. The biggest lesson I learned was this: Discipline is stronger than motivation. Motivation is emotional. Discipline is a decision. Motivation says, “I feel like doing it.” Discipline says, “I will do it even if I don’t feel like it.” When life knocked me down — and it did — I learned not to stay there. Failure stopped being a sign to quit. It became proof that I was trying. And slowly, my life changed. Not suddenly. Not magically. But permanently. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t gifted. I wasn’t lucky. I was consistent. I stopped asking, “Why is this happening to me?” And started asking, “What can this teach me?” Pain became a teacher. Fear became a guide. Struggle became a training ground. One morning, I looked at my old self in the mirror — the one who waited for miracles — and I almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t know that everything he wanted was on the other side of effort. Today, I don’t chase motivation. I chase progress. Some days are powerful. Some days are slow. But every day matters. If you are reading this and feel stuck, tired, or hopeless, hear me clearly: You do not need confidence to start. You do not need money to start. You do not need permission to start. You only need courage for one small step. Not a perfect plan. Not a complete roadmap. Just a step. Because action creates belief. Effort creates identity. And consistency creates destiny. Stop waiting for a miracle. Become one.
By Iazaz hussainabout 3 hours ago in Motivation
The Duelist
The rays of a dying red sun flashed against the onrushing blade. The grey beards say the key to dueling lies in size, speed, reach, righteous fury, whatever the person in front of them pays them to say. Matteo knew better than any it was none of these and had an undefeated record on these sands to prove it.
By Matthew J. Fromm2 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.