Losing Someone You Love. Not to Death.
Updated: Jul 12
There is a particular kind of grief that comes from losing someone who is still alive.
It is not the grief of death, but the grief of clarity. It is the slow, sobering realization that love cannot survive without safety, and that attachment is not the same as stability. Walking away from someone you love because you must protect yourself is a different kind of heartbreak. It does not come with sympathy or understanding. It comes with silence and the weight of your own decision.
For a long time, he was easy to forgive. That is what made the relationship so confusing. He was a pleaser. When things went wrong, he did not stay distant. He came back quickly. He would fix whatever had broken. He would smooth things over with affection, attention, and grand gestures. He knew how to restore emotional comfort almost instantly. He made everyone around him feel important and cared for. I interpreted that as depth. I believed the cycle of rupture and repair meant passion. I convinced myself that because he always came back, it meant I mattered more than anything else in his world. I truly believed we were his universe.
What I did not understand at the time was that repair without change is not growth. It is repetition. Every time I forgave him, I thought I was choosing love. I was choosing to ignore patterns. When I discovered that he had been cheating, the illusion finally cracked. The betrayal was not just emotional; it was physical. He contracted a sexually transmitted disease while being with me. I learned about it almost immediately after he did, and I thank God that I never slept with him again after that point. He tried to keep it from me. His behavior shifted in subtle but undeniable ways. He became guarded, slightly distant, careful with his phone, careful with his words. I felt something was wrong long before I had evidence. I trusted my instincts, and eventually I found the test results he had received the day before. In that moment, the truth was no longer abstract. The man who claimed devotion had risked my health and chosen secrecy.
When I ended the relationship, I expected sadness. I did not expect escalation. He relapsed heavily into alcohol, and I can only hope it did not extend further into drugs. Instead of accountability, there was retaliation. He harassed me repeatedly. He slashed my tires. He showed up outside my home uninvited. He created fake social media profiles and contacted me from blocked numbers. He found ways to force himself into my awareness after I had clearly removed him from my life. What began as heartbreak turned into a lesson about instability. The boundary was no longer just emotional; it was necessary for safety.
The most difficult part to grieve has not been him. It has been the version of him I believed in. It has been accepted that the man who made me feel adored could also be reckless and volatile. It has been admitted that what I mistook for deep love was often a cycle of damage followed by charm. He was not incapable of kindness. That is what made it so disorienting. He was capable of warmth, generosity, and attention. What he was not capable of was consistency, honesty, or integrity when it mattered most.
There is a difference between someone who fixes mistakes and someone who stops creating them. I learned that difference through experience. Forgiveness came easily to me because he knew how to perform remorse. He knew how to make me feel chosen again. What he did not know how to do was change behavior that required discipline and accountability.
Motherhood sharpened my clarity. I cannot allow chaos near my home. I cannot model to my son that love means tolerating disrespect, dishonesty, or danger. I cannot normalize volatility and call it passion. The cost is too high. My peace is not optional. My safety is not negotiable.
Losing him did not feel like losing a soulmate. It felt like losing an illusion. Illusions are powerful because they are built on hope. Letting go of that hope hurts. But keeping it would have required sacrificing my stability and my self-respect. I chose stability. I chose protection. I chose to believe that real love does not require investigation, fear, or recovery from repeated harm.
Some losses feel like devastation. Others feel like awakening. This one was both. I grieved what I thought we had, but I do not regret walking away. Love without safety is not love. It is an attachment wrapped in chaos.
I no longer confuse the two.
