There’s a weird kind of pain that comes with seeing something clearly. Not the chaotic kind where you’re spiraling and questioning everything, but the quiet kind. The kind where you know exactly what it is, you know it’s not right for you, and you know it’s not going to turn into what you hoped it would be… and somehow that hurts more.

Because it would almost be easier if you were confused. If there was something to figure out, something to fix, some version of the story where if you just said the right thing or tried a little harder, it could become what you wanted. But there isn’t. There’s just this still, uncomfortable clarity that leaves you sitting with the truth instead of chasing a different outcome.

And the part nobody really talks about is what comes after that. Because once you see it for what it is, you don’t just lose the situation… you lose the version of it you had in your head. The version where it worked, where it felt easy, where you didn’t have to sit there trying to convince yourself to let it go. That version can feel just as real as what actually happened, which is why letting go of it feels so heavy.

I think that’s the part that’s been the hardest for me. Not letting go of him, but letting go of what I wanted it to be. Because those are two completely different things. It’s easy to walk away from something that’s obviously wrong, but it’s a lot harder when it’s almost something. When it had moments that felt real. When you could see the potential so clearly that it felt like it was right there, just out of reach.

That’s what keeps pulling at you. Not the reality, but the possibility. The “what if” version that your mind keeps replaying like it’s still an option. And I’ve caught myself in that loop more times than I want to admit, thinking maybe I should just say something, maybe I should reach out, maybe I just need one more conversation so I can finally feel okay.

But if I’m honest, that’s never really about clarity. It’s about relief. It’s about wanting the feeling to stop for a second, wanting the silence to feel less loud, wanting something that makes it feel like it’s not actually over. And I’ve done that before. I’ve gone back for one more conversation, one more chance, one more attempt to make something work that was already showing me it wouldn’t. It never gave me peace, it just made it harder to leave.

So now I’m trying something different. I’m not fixing it, I’m not reaching out, and I’m not trying to rewrite it into something it’s not. I’m just letting it be what it is. And honestly, that part sucks. There’s nothing empowering about sitting in your feelings and not doing anything about them. There’s nothing aesthetic about choosing peace when peace feels like loss. It’s quiet, it’s uncomfortable, and it feels like you’re just existing in the middle of something unresolved.

But I think this is what choosing yourself actually looks like sometimes. Not confident, not unbothered, not that “I know my worth” energy people love to talk about. Just… not going back. Even when part of you still wants to. Even when you still wish it had turned out differently.

I’m not confused about what it is. I’m just sad it’s not what I wanted. And maybe, in a quiet, imperfect way, that’s a kind of peace too.

TL;DR

sometimes the hardest part isn’t not knowing…
it’s knowing exactly what something is and still wishing it was different.

you’re not confused.
you’re grieving the version of it you hoped for.

and choosing yourself doesn’t always feel strong…
sometimes it just looks like not going back. 🤍