The Day I Chose to Stop Chasing People

I used to be the one who reached out first.

I was the friend who checked in, the partner who gave one more chance, the daughter who excused silence with “they’re just busy.” I lived in a constant state of bending—bending over backward, bending my own boundaries, bending the truth just enough to make someone else’s behaviour seems okay. I mistook effort for connection. I confused loyalty with self-abandonment.

It all came crashing down one rainy Tuesday.

There was nothing extraordinary about that day. I woke up late. My phone was empty of texts. My inbox was full of other people’s needs. The usual. But something inside me—something I’d been silencing for years—finally roared loud enough to be heard.

It happened when I was scrolling through messages. There she was: my oldest friend. Or so I thought. I had messaged her three times over two months. Not once had she replied. I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, crafting yet another gentle check-in:

“Hey, just wondering how you are? Miss you.”

Then I stopped.

I looked at the message and, for the first time, asked myself, why am I the only one wondering how someone is? Why am I the only one missing?

I deleted the draft. Not out of spite. Out of clarity.

That small act—the choice to not send another message—felt like setting down a hundred-pound weight I didn’t know I was carrying.

It wasn’t just her. It was a pattern. The ex who disappeared emotionally but always expected me to stay. The cousin who only called when she needed something. The coworker who acted like my time was theirs to borrow but never respected my “no.” The group chats where I always showed up, always responded, always cared… and noticed no one asked about me in return.

I had taught people that I’d tolerate the bare minimum. That I’d keep showing up no matter how little I received. That I’d explain their silence, forgive their absence, and water a dead plant if it meant I didn’t have to accept it was gone.

That day, I stopped.

I didn’t post a dramatic goodbye. I didn’t slam any doors. I just… stepped back.

I left unread messages unread. I didn’t call first. I gave people the room to show up—or not. I watched, quietly, as the silence stretched on.

At first, it hurt. It was lonely. You realize how many relationships were built on your effort alone when you stop pouring.

But then something incredible happened.

Peace. Not the loud kind that shouts “I’m better off without them.” The quiet kind. The kind that sits with you on a Sunday morning when you drink coffee and feel whole by yourself. The kind that shows up when you no longer wonder if you’re enough—because you know you are.

I started putting that energy back into myself.

I read books without checking my phone. I walked without documenting it. I reached out only when it felt mutual. I learned to sit in solitude without feeling invisible. I reconnected with the people who noticed I was quiet and said, “Hey, I miss you.” I made space for the kinds of connections that felt light, not heavy. Aligned, not lopsided.

And you know what’s wild?

Some of the people I stopped chasing never noticed I was gone.

That used to wreck me. Now, it frees me.

Because not everyone deserves access to you. Not everyone gets to have you at your best when they couldn’t bother with you at your lowest. Love isn’t proven by how hard you can chase. It’s proven by who walks beside you without needing to be begged.

I didn’t change overnight. I still have moments where I feel tempted to reach out, to explain myself, to ask, “Did I do something wrong?”

But then I remember: You don’t have to chase what’s meant for you.

If someone values you, you’ll feel it. You won’t have to decode silence, chase closure, or carry a conversation alone.

So this is what I’ve learned:

Stop begging to be chosen.

Stop showing up for people who wouldn’t do the same.

Stop watering relationships that never grew roots.

Choose yourself—not in bitterness, but in love.

The right people? They’ll meet you there. No chasing required.