Before November ended, something in me cracked.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was the kind of breaking that happens slowly, piece by piece, until one day you realize you’ve been holding your breath for far too long.
Elaiza and I had a fight. Not the kind you can laugh about later. Not the kind that clears the air. It was the kind that leaves you drowning while still standing.
It started with something small.
A TikTok affiliate post.
I posted a product on my affiliate account, not because I loved it, not because I believed in it deeply, but because I needed something there. I didn’t even buy the product. I didn’t put much effort into it. Honestly, it wasn’t my passion, and there was no grand goal behind it. It was just… a post. My account. My choice.
And yet, I was disgraced for it.
In front of her family.
Words were said without care. Without pause. Without even asking for my side. I felt exposed, belittled, and suddenly very small, like my intentions didn’t matter, like I didn’t matter.
“The hardest pain isn’t being wrong. It’s being misunderstood without being heard.”
What hurt more was this truth:
This wasn’t the first time.
It kept repeating. Simple things turned into moments where I was made to feel less. Conversations that didn’t need humiliation somehow found it. I wasn’t being accused of hurting her but I was being hurt, over and over again.
I felt myself drowning in a relationship where I was constantly trying to explain my heart while she kept talking over it.
And I know, she isn’t well either. I know she carries her own wounds. I know this. I always have.
But knowing someone else is hurting doesn’t cancel your own pain.
“Love should never require you to disappear just to keep the peace.”
I reached a point where I was drained mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I hadn’t done anything that should warrant being torn down. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I was just trying to exist as myself.
And yet, it felt like my feelings were optional.
I told her to stop.
I told her I couldn’t stay in something that keeps wounding me.
I told her I no longer want a relationship that ignores mental health and emotional safety.
I was standing at the edge of us.
The truth scared me when it finally surfaced:
There’s a part of me that doesn’t love her anymore.
Not rage. Not hatred. Just exhaustion.
It feels like 50/50 now love on one side, deep fatigue on the other. And the tired side has been winning lately.
“You can love someone deeply and still realize staying is destroying you.”
I started thinking about things I never questioned before, like our finances. I realized all the savings we have are actually mine. Not ours. Just mine.
And suddenly, I wanted boundaries.
Not out of selfishness but out of self-preservation.
Because love that doesn’t grow, plans that never move forward, promises that keep breaking, and trust that keeps bending… that’s not partnership.
That’s survival mode.
“Broken promises don’t shatter trust all at once. They erode it quietly.”
We had plans. We talked about stepping into the future together. But words kept replacing action. Hope kept replacing reality. And I kept believing, maybe too much.
A Letter to Myself
Dear me,
You are not weak for feeling tired.
You are not dramatic for wanting peace.
You are not wrong for setting boundaries.
Stop shrinking your pain just because someone else is hurting too. Two wounds don’t cancel each other out, they bleed together.
Love should feel safe. It should feel supportive. It should feel like home, not like something you have to defend yourself from.
Let go of foolish hope.
The kind that waits for change while you keep breaking.
The kind that excuses harm because of history.
The kind that calls endurance “love.”
Choose clarity over confusion.
Choose self-respect over familiar pain.
Choose yourself, even if it hurts.
You are allowed to walk away from what drains you.
Always have been.
Lessons November Didn’t Ask, But Forced Me to Learn
This season taught me truths I didn’t want but needed:
“Love without respect slowly turns into self-betrayal.”
Another one came painfully clear:
“Being understood is not a luxury, it is a requirement.”
And the hardest lesson of all:
“Hope becomes dangerous when it keeps you blind to reality.”
Even the deepest love cannot survive constant emotional harm. Even shared dreams rot when promises are repeatedly broken. Even strong hearts need rest.
November didn’t end gently.
It ended with honesty.
A broken one, yes, but honest.
And somewhere in that honesty, I know this:
I cannot keep pouring myself into a place where I am slowly disappearing.
Some loves don’t end with hate.
They end with exhaustion.
And that, too, is a kind of truth.
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