free. at. last.
I didn’t know that I wasn’t free. Not until tonight.
It’s 11 months to the day since my breakup with M, my longest, most significant romantic relationship of my life.
In a moment of not-all-togetherness, I texted her. I am heartbroken, I told her. And, no, this is not me asking for you back. I added: and I’m a lot more like you than I let on.
A couple of days go by, and she asked me how so.
I emailed back that I had tried to push her to be more a part of this world, even though the truth was that I was projecting my insecurities onto her.
It was me who was out of balance; I was the one who had invested too much in this world of doing, and forsaken myself, as well as my relationship, in the process.
Her response: she had moved on.
That was another Universe for me.
Her words stung deep.
Here I was, still heartbroken, and she had moved on.
So much so that it was light years away from her now.
But after talking it out with my new Carolina friend, I realized that she had just given me a gift–freedom.
Maybe I was worried that I had hurt her. And I was still beating myself up for it, almost a year later.
But her moving on gives me permission to do the same.
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