Loving Me, After Her

The final entry in my healing and love series — a tribute to the version of me who loved deeply, lost painfully, and is finally learning to choose herself.

I wasn’t supposed to fall in love — not at that time.

I told myself I had other things to focus on. My studies came first. My role as the eldest meant I had responsibilities that left little room for romance, much less commitment. Love wasn’t part of the plan. I reminded myself of that more times than I care to admit.

And yet love came. Even while holding all my duties in both hands, I somehow offered him my heart too.

I kept thinking I could make it work. That I just needed to balance better. That I didn’t have to choose between love and everything else — that somehow, I could manage both. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I cared so much. More than I let on, more than I allowed myself to say out loud.

I gave what I could — and then more. I stretched myself thin to meet him halfway, even when I didn’t have the time, even when the weight of being the eldest pressed hard against the softness I was trying to protect. I tried to hold it all together — the deadlines, the expectations, the people counting on me, and him.

I thought effort would be enough. That love would understand. But love, as I learned, doesn’t always wait. Sometimes, even when your heart is all in, someone can still leave. And he did.

There was no dramatic ending. No big fight. Just a quiet letting go. A slow unraveling I didn’t see coming — or maybe I did, but I kept hoping I could pull it back together in time. But he was already slipping away, and I was still trying to keep everything else from falling apart.

When it ended, I didn’t know where to place the hurt. Because I did give my all. And still, it felt like I had failed — failed him, failed myself, failed love.

Should I have waited to love until I had less to carry? Because there was another kind of love, too — the one I had to let go of before it could even begin. The kind where the connection was there, the feeling was real, but the timing demanded silence. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I couldn’t choose it, not without letting someone else down. Not without putting everything I’d worked for, or everything I carried for others, at risk.

And that kind of letting go? It leaves a quieter scar. No promises made. No goodbyes said. Just a decision made in the name of duty — and a quiet ache that follows.

But healing isn’t about rewriting the past. It’s about forgiving the version of me who didn’t know how to choose differently.

It’s about holding space for both: the girl who gave her all to love — and the one who gave her all to survive.

Loving me after her is forgiving the girl who gave her all even when she knew it wouldn’t be enough. It means honoring the fact that she didn’t hold back not out of recklessness, but hope. Hope that maybe, love could grow even in the tight spaces between responsibility and yearning. It didn’t. But that doesn’t make her weak. That makes her brave.

And maybe the strongest thing I’ve ever done is grieve something I willingly walked into — and still choose to believe I deserved to be loved anyway.

Loving me, after her, is also loving what has remained — the steady, quiet love I have for my family. It may not be the kind that promised forever, but it’s the kind that endures — through silence, through sacrifice, through everything. It’s the most beautiful kind of love I have right now. And even if I carry the ache of someone I had to let go, I’m still grateful for this love — the kind that may not always be spoken aloud, but is felt in quiet moments, shared responsibilities, and the way we continue to show up for one another.

So here I am now not waiting for love to return but learning how to return to myself. To the girl who loved deeply, even when she shouldn't have. To the one who got left, even after giving her all. To the heart that still believes love is worth it — but not at the cost of herself.

Loving me, after her, is making the most of what I have even in the quiet corners of my life where love might never love me back.

It’s not bitterness. It’s not defeat. It’s a soft kind of acceptance. A quiet rebuilding. It’s finding wholeness in solitude. And after all the misses, all the mess, and all the ache in between — I am still someone worth loving.

Especially by me.

Missed the earlier pieces in this healing and love series?

Please visit - Beneath the Misses, Beyond the Mess: My Way Back to Me

And then the rest of the mess unfolds…

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