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.

I held on to a version of him that only existed in my dreams, the man I believed he could be. The man I saw glimpses of in rare, fleeting moments when he wasn’t lying, or leaving, or breaking me a little more. I saw our future — the house, the love, the laughter, the life we could’ve built. I thought I was being loyal. Devoted. Faithful. But I was just hurting myself.

He cheated. More than once. And every time, he came back with apologies that sounded sincere enough to believe. With tears in his eyes. With soft words and big promises. And I, in love and full of hope, forgave him. Again. And again. And again. Because I saw something in him. Potential. A better version. A future. I wanted to believe love could heal. That my love could be enough. I fought for us while he fought against me.

I stayed when I should’ve left. I explained his actions to friends who saw through him before I did. I defended him, protected him, even when he didn’t protect me. I gave him chances he didn’t deserve, because I remembered what it felt like to be abandoned, and I didn’t want to do that to someone else. I forgot that I was someone too.

I poured my heart into him while he poked holes in everything we were trying to build. I sacrificed pieces of myself just to keep the idea of “us” alive. And it wasn’t just the cheating. It was the lack of support. The emotional absence. The way he made me feel small when I dreamed big. The way he shrugged off my needs, my feelings, my pain. But I kept hoping.

There were nights I cried myself to sleep, lying next to him, feeling lonelier than I ever did when I was actually alone. I would wake up and pretend like everything was okay, just to avoid another argument. I twisted myself into someone more “understanding,” more “patient,” more “low-maintenance.” And for what? For a man who only loved the version of me that made his life easier.

I started to shrink. I stopped writing. I stopped laughing the way I used to. I forgot what it felt like to feel light — to feel safe — to feel chosen. I was in love, but I was disappearing. And still, I stayed. Because I was afraid that letting go would mean starting over. That I would regret leaving. That maybe the next time he said “I’ll do better,” he actually would. But he didn’t.

One day, I looked in the mirror and I didn’t recognize myself. I looked tired. Not just physically — soul tired. The kind of tired that sits deep in your bones. The kind of tired that whispers, you don’t have to live like this. And for the first time, I listened. I didn’t leave in anger. I didn’t scream. I didn’t slam doors. I just… stopped begging. Stopped hoping. Stopped trying to convince someone to choose me while I kept choosing them. I let go. With a heavy heart. But a lighter soul.

Letting go didn’t mean I stopped loving him. It meant I started loving myself more. It meant I finally understood that real love doesn’t demand that you bleed to prove it. That someone who truly cares about you will not repeatedly be the cause of your pain. I left with a heart full of love, but no more excuses. No more maybe-one-days. No more “if he just tries harder.” No more second chances for someone who wasted the first ten.

Healing wasn’t immediate. I grieved what we could’ve been more than what we actually were. I missed the idea of him — not the reality. I had to forgive myself for staying so long. For loving so hard. For losing so much of myself in the process. But little by little, I came back to me.

I started pouring into the woman I abandoned. I took myself on quiet walks. I sat in silence and let myself feel every ache. I stopped reaching out to him in moments of weakness. I started writing again. Laughing again. Living again. And it wasn’t loud. There was no dramatic transformation. Just small acts of self-love that whispered, I’m still here.

I no longer look at love through the lens of potential. I want real. Present. Intentional. Someone who shows up. Who listens. Who loves me fully, not when it’s convenient, but when it counts.

I no longer confuse pain with passion.

I no longer stay where I’m not met with the same effort.

I no longer carry the entire relationship on my back.

He may have lost me, but I found me. And that’s the most beautiful ending I could’ve ever written.