Being in love with you was the easy part. But choosing myself? That was the hard.
It took me months of unlearning, rewiring, and breaking old patterns before I could finally stand up for myself.
Monthly Archives: July 2025
Scars that Stay
No, I don’t adore the marks I carry.
They’re not symbols of strength to me—
just remnants of a silence that screamed too loud.
Every time my eyes meet them,
a quiet ache stirs beneath the surface,
a memory I never invited, returning unannounced.
They were fading once, nearly gone.
But something pulled them back into the light,
and now they speak louder than I do.
I hate how visible my quiet battles have become,
how pain sometimes etches itself where the world can see.
But I don’t linger too long in that thought.
I simply breathe,
and move through the days with the weight of it all,
learning to carry what cannot be erased.
It means nothing to me if you fall in love with me at your lowest when you treated me like shit at your best.
How can I forgive you when my scars haven’t forgiven you?
I like to think I’m healing. Despite the missteps and moments of doubt, I know I’m on the right path. I’m self-aware. I know where it hurts, and most of the time, I even understand why it hurts.
But healing brought something I didn’t expect—the loss of feeling. The absence of blind love. The instinct to emotionally detach from anyone who doesn’t serve me. And that’s not who I used to be.
I used to be the “love me, choose me” girl. But more often than not, I was too okay with not being chosen. Too understanding. I handed out free passes to people who didn’t deserve them, letting them toy with my heart without consequence. I used to feel everything so deeply. And now, I feel almost nothing.
I’m not in love anymore. Not even with the idea of it. And honestly, I don’t know if I even remember what love is supposed to feel like.
This relationship taught me some of the best and worst things about myself. That’s what relationships do—even when they don’t work, they reveal. In the beginning, it showed me how unconditional my love could be. How forgiving, nurturing, caring, and trusting I was capable of being.
Until I wasn’t.
Until I finally saw things for what they were. And when that clarity came, it was too late, but somehow still on time. Because then I remembered something I’ve always known about myself—how cold I can be. How quickly I can shut down. And when I do, you’d question whether I ever loved you at all.
Still, I want to be in love again. But this time, with someone who treats me right. I want to feel excited again. I want butterflies. I want to feel silly and childish and consumed by that wild, intoxicating infatuation. Because the absence of all of that? It’s starting to feel like emptiness.
I feel so deeply uninterested. Nothing excites me. Nothing feels new. There’s nothing I’m looking forward to.
Sometimes, I feel most alive when I think about certain paths I’ve walked before. But there’s no real desire to retrace those steps either.
It’s been like this for a while. I try to put myself out there, but there’s a quiet resistance inside me—a kind of empathy that holds me back. I try to reason with myself, and I know it’s okay to take time, but still… I just can’t do it yet.
My therapist asked me if I feel like I lose a part of myself with every relationship that ends. Like something inside me dies with them. I had never really thought of it that way. But I told him this: every breakup leaves behind a different version of me. Some made me stronger, some left me feeling less.
The only connection I’ve felt recently was the one that promised something permanent the moment I replied. And because it happened so easily, I thought it wouldn’t be that hard to feel that way again. But it is. Nothing sparks. Nothing glows. Nothing ignites anything inside me.
Maybe that’s why I keep looking back. The most thrilling parts of my life were often the moments I wasn’t supposed to be living. The ones laced with risk, spontaneity, and just enough secrecy to make them unforgettable.
I remember giving them a time and waiting. Wondering if they’d show up. Wondering if they’d be early, late, or not come at all. One always came right on time. The other was barely there and always late.
Maybe they’ll always be my favorite mistakes. Both of them made me feel things I hadn’t felt in a long time. But only one gave it back to me fully. With him, it was like we felt the same things at the same time, and there was no running from it.
June 2019. A time I’d relive in a heartbeat. It looks even more perfect from this distance, but I know it wasn’t. It was always wrong. And maybe I should feel ashamed, but I wasn’t. Because I didn’t demand anything. I didn’t push. I just went with the flow. And I was okay with that—because for the first time in a long time, someone made me feel alive again.
I’ve been feeling so drained lately. Days blur into hours, and I lie in bed watching the world unfold through a screen, completely disconnected from everything outside my door.
I know it’s depression. It’s mostly functional, but these days, it’s not. It’s familiar—it never really leaves. I’ve lived with it long enough. But something about this season feels different. I feel stuck, distant, indifferent. I don’t know why, and honestly, I don’t have the energy to figure it out. I just keep telling myself it’ll pass. One day I’ll wake up, go for a run, return to the gym, eat better, and slowly start feeling like myself again.
Until then, I’m learning to be gentle with myself. To forgive the unrealistic expectations I keep setting, even when my mind isn’t in the right space. To stop being so hard on myself for needing rest. It may look like laziness or a lack of purpose, but this might be the most I can manage right now. And that has to be enough.
Maybe I’m processing more than I realize. Maybe this quiet is the pause I didn’t know I needed after months of pushing through. Whatever it is, I’m choosing patience. I’m choosing softness. I’m choosing to love myself through it all.
Because if I don’t, who will?
She Was Sea 