“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”
— C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
I’ve looked back at it now—really looked.
At how bad it was.
At the different forms it took, the different ways it showed up.
Some of the things are easy to name.
You can see it when a mug smashes into the wall behind your head.
You can name it when there is sexual assault.
When there is screaming so loud the police are called.
When an armed response unit shows up and everything is suddenly documented, official, undeniable.
That part, people understand.
What’s harder to explain is everything else.
The psychological abuse.
The gaslighting.
The tracking of my car.
Not being allowed to close a bedroom door.
My social media being hacked until my voice disappeared.
The slow removal of freedom.
Of choice.
Of options.
You don’t wake up one day with nothing.
It happens gradually—quietly—until one day you realize you are living inside it.
No freedom.
No choices.
No options.
Nowhere to go.
That’s the part people don’t see.
Because psychological abuse doesn’t explode all at once.
It erodes.
“Gaslighting is a form of psychological abuse that causes victims to doubt their own sanity.”
— Dr. Robin Stern, psychologist and author of The Gaslight Effect
It teaches you to doubt your memory.
Your instincts.
Your worth.
It turns you into a shell of yourself—
still functioning, still surviving, still showing up—
but triggered, traumatized, and struggling to see any value in who you are.
I wanted to explain how bad it was.
I wanted to make it make sense.
But even now, it’s hard to fully articulate—
because it didn’t happen overnight.
And still, I tried.
I tried so hard.
I gave so much.
I loved deeply in a relationship that gave me very little back.
That is not something I am ashamed of.
Because if I could give that level of love, patience, loyalty, and commitment in a relationship that was narcissistic and controlling—
then imagine what kind of partner I will be in a healthy one.
Loving someone like that teaches you endurance.
You learn how to carry the emotional weight for two people.
You learn how to self-soothe while being blamed.
You learn how to survive without being seen.
And still, I loved.
Love like that—when placed in the wrong hands—looks like weakness.
But in the right hands?
It becomes safety.
Stability.
Joy.
I didn’t love the wrong person too much.
I loved the wrong person at all.
The problem was never the depth of my love.
The problem was giving it to someone who was incapable of meeting it.
I was never too much.
I was just with someone who was incapable of enough.
And here is something else I have learned:
It matters that we don’t let experiences like this harden us.
It would be easier to close my heart.
To become guarded, distant, untouchable.
To mistake walls for strength.
But a hardened heart doesn’t protect you—
it only shrinks your world.
Remaining loving, open, and willing to feel is not naïve.
It is an act of courage.
It keeps us soft where the world tries to make us rigid.
It keeps us generous where fear tries to make us withholding.
It allows connection, joy, and intimacy to remain possible.
Love does not need to be reckless to be open.
It can be discerning.
Boundaried.
Wise.
But it must stay alive.
Because the moment we stop believing in love,
the harm wins twice.
And now I know this:
Someone will be lucky to be loved by me.
In the right relationship—
where love is mutual, respect is constant, and freedom is not something I have to earn—
what an incredibly lucky person that will be to be loved by me.
Because the love I give is not small.
It is patient.
It is loyal.
It is real.
It was never wasted.
It was proof of my capacity.
So whoever comes next won’t be inheriting my damage.
They’ll be meeting my strength.
And imagine what that kind of love looks like when it’s finally returned.
