I think when people find themselves on the other side of a failed long-term relationship, everything feels a little strange. You’re carrying the wisdom that only comes from that specific experience, but also the bruises that came with it. Part of you wants to protect yourself. Part of you wants reassurance that people don’t have hidden agendas. Part of you wants to move slowly enough that you can trust what is actually unfolding rather than rushing ahead and filling in the blanks with hope, fear, or assumptions.
It’s a delicate balance. On one hand, you understand how easy it would be to become jaded. To decide that everyone is the same. To assume disappointment before giving something/someone a chance. On the other hand, you’ve seen what that mentality can do to a person.
I’ve watched bitterness become a lens through which everything is viewed, and I know that’s not the life I want for myself.
I feel like I’m stepping into this new chapter, milestone year (hello 50!) with a clearer head than I’ve ever had before. Maybe that’s one of the gifts hidden inside failure. When enough things don’t work out, you’re eventually forced to stop looking at life through the stories you’ve always told yourself and start seeing things as they actually were.
Perhaps it is because of failure. Perhaps it is because I’ve had enough time to sit with the lessons and let them settle. Or maybe it’s because, for the first time, I’m looking at relationships, friendships, and life itself with fresh eyes. Not with a heart filled with what I hope something becomes, nor the fear of what it might become, but a growing willingness to simply let things reveal themselves in their own time.
And if you’ve read any of my posts from the last year, they’ve all been kind of pointing toward this sentiment, even when I didn’t feel like I could clearly articulate it. I am finally learning that peace doesn’t come from controlling outcomes, but from trusting yourself to handle whatever outcome arrives. This realization was really hard for me to actually get to - my stubbornness hindered this for far too long…
I know there are stages of grief, and I know it’s okay to move through them at whatever pace feels right. I also know that I carry both the gift and the burden of hope. Hope has allowed me to stay in unhealthy situations longer than I should have, believing that if I just worked harder, waited longer, loved without conditions, or understood more, things might become what I needed them to be.
But hope is also what carried me through the darkest parts of this journey. It is what allowed me to believe there was something better waiting on the other side, even when I couldn’t yet see it.
The difference now is that hope no longer feels attached to a particular person, outcome, or story. It feels attached to life itself.
Healing is not easy. It’s easier to convince yourself you’re doing the work when you’re really just repeating old patterns in a slightly different form. Real healing requires honesty, accountability, and a willingness to make different choices even when those choices feel uncomfortable.
It’s fucking hard. And it’s taken me far too long to get here than I’m comfortable admitting. But at the end of all that, it feels right to finally be at a place where I can simply allow things to unfold as they will.
xo
-s
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