roots

Today’s therapy session brought truths to the surface—
ones I’ve clung to out of hope, not clarity.

We were on different levels of emotional maturity.
He wasn’t capable of giving or receiving love
in the way I needed,
in the way I deserved.

There was a self-loathing in him,
quiet in the beginning but deep towards the end
and the truth is—
that is not good for me as an individual
Not as a partner.
Not as a person trying to grow.

And I say that without blame,
without bitterness.
Because I know he didn’t mean to shut down
in the face of real love.
I know he’s on his own path,
and I care for him very deeply
I think I always will.

But the fact remains
he didn’t have the bandwidth
for a committed relationship— one where love is not just a noun or a feeling, but a verb.
He couldn’t see
how being wanted, being loved,
made him pull away.

And I have to own my part, too—
my patterns of attaching when my intuition senses even the most subtle changes— a look, a touch, a tone.

that hyper-vigilance sends an alarm throughout my body
only to slowly lose myself in the chase for reconnection, and the chase for someone to validate old, negative narratives
All of it tied to self-worth I have only half-found.

It will be uncomfortable to sit with myself,
to stand still instead of reaching.
But it’s time.
Time to be alone,
to slowly and patiently
tend to the roots of my being