The Weight of It All

I used to think that love was supposed to feel like this warm, safe blanket, wrapping you up and making everything okay. It’s funny, because that’s exactly how it starts—when you meet someone who makes you feel like you’ve finally found a place to belong, a person who sees you in a way nobody else has. But then, sometimes, you wake up one day and realize that blanket is suffocating you. You can’t breathe in it anymore.

It’s not their fault, not always. I mean, yes, sometimes it is them—sometimes they say things or do things that chip away at your self-worth until you’re not sure where you end and they begin. But most of the time, I think it’s me. I lose myself. I bend and twist to fit into what they need, or what I think they need, or worse, what I think I need in order to feel loved. And somehow, in that process, I forget who I actually am.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that feeling lately—about what it means to lose yourself in someone else’s world. When I look back at my last relationship, I see that I became so obsessed with making them happy, with trying to fix things, with keeping the peace, that I stopped caring about my own needs. I didn’t even recognize the person I was becoming. There was so much anger inside me, but I never said anything. There was so much sadness, but I didn’t let myself feel it. I just… kept going, because that's what we do, right? You keep going until one day you can’t anymore.

It’s hard to talk about the things I went through, because I still don’t fully understand them myself. There were moments when I would cry and beg for things to change, but nothing ever did. There were times I couldn’t see a way out, but I still convinced myself that I had to stay. And somehow, staying always felt safer than leaving. Because at least if I stayed, I still had someone.

It wasn’t until I found myself standing in front of a mirror one morning, wondering who the hell was looking back at me, that I realized how deep into the fog I’d gone. That was the first time I heard myself say out loud that I was losing myself. And it wasn’t just in the relationship, either. It was in my own head. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt good about anything. Or the last time I laughed because I genuinely wanted to, not because I was pretending for someone else.

I wish I could say that one moment was enough to snap me out of it, but it wasn’t. It took months—months—of therapy, some broken friendships, and a lot of nights crying myself to sleep before I could start putting the pieces back together. I’ll never be the person I was before all of this. I don’t think anyone ever is after something like that. But I’m learning who I am again. Slowly, painfully, but surely.

Sometimes I feel like I’m falling apart all over again, like I’ll never get it right. And I hate that feeling, the constant push-and-pull between wanting to fix things and wanting to just let them go. But what I’ve realized—finally—is that fixing myself doesn’t mean running away from the mess. It means sitting with it, feeling it, even when it hurts, and letting it teach me something new.

And maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll learn that I don’t have to lose myself in anyone else to feel loved. I don’t have to disappear to make space for someone else’s pain. I’m still here. And I deserve to take up space.

I’m learning that.

If you're reading this and you're in that place too—stuck in a relationship that drains you or with people who make you feel like you’re not enough—please remember: you’re allowed to take up space. You don’t have to apologize for it. And you don’t have to lose yourself to love someone else.

Take care of yourself. Even when it feels like you’re the only one who will.

S

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