03/23/2026
This…
This one is hard to sit with. I know because I avoided it for years.
It is so much cleaner to be the wronged one. So much more comfortable to stand in the story where everything that hurt you came from outside, from them, from circumstance, from the particular cruelty of the universe choosing you for its more difficult lessons. And sometimes that story is true. Sometimes people genuinely do things to you that you did not invite, did not deserve, and could not have prevented. That is real and it matters and it should not be minimised.
But most of our suffering is not that clean. And the longer I have been alive, the more I have had to reckon with a version of my own story where I was not only the person who got hurt, I was also, sometimes, the person who kept walking back into the place where the hurting happened.
I stayed in rooms I had already felt unsafe in. I returned calls I knew would leave me hollow. I gave second chances to patterns, not to people, to patterns that had already shown me exactly what they were. I ignored what I knew because what I knew was inconvenient. I wanted the relationship more than I wanted the truth of what the relationship was costing me. And I told myself a very convincing story about why none of that was my fault.
It wasn't entirely my fault. I want to say that clearly. The people who hurt us are still responsible for hurting us. Nothing in this is about exonerating anyone or turning your pain into a character flaw. But there is a difference between being wronged and being the person who kept handing the wrong people the key.
I handed that key many times. I told myself it was love. Some of it was. Some of it was fear wearing love's coat.
The version of healing that only goes in one direction, that only examines what was done to you, will take you partway. It will help you name it. Grieve it. Stop tolerating it. All of that is necessary and none of it should be skipped. But at some point, if you are honest, the healing asks you to turn the light around. To look not just at what happened but at what you kept doing after you already knew.
Why did I stay? Not the first time, but the fourth time. The seventh. When the pattern had already introduced itself by name and handed me a business card. Why did I keep showing up to a table that was never going to have enough for me?
For me the answer, when I finally sat with it long enough to hear it, was this: I stayed because leaving felt like confirming that I was not worth more. That this was what I was built for. That the love I was receiving, inadequate as it was, was proportionate to what I had to offer. So I stayed and I worked harder and I adjusted and I hoped, because hoping felt more bearable than the alternative, which was to look clearly at the situation and admit that I had been participating in my own diminishment for longer than I was comfortable admitting.
Those questions are not comfortable. But they are the ones that lead somewhere the other questions cannot reach. Because when you understand why you kept the door open, you finally have the information you need to close it, not in anger, not in self-pity, but in the quiet and serious way of someone who has decided they are done paying for lessons they have already learned.
Real healing has two faces and we spend most of our time looking at the first one. The one that says: you were hurt, and it was not your fault, and you are allowed to take up space in your grief. That face is true and it is necessary and I would never ask anyone to look away from it before they are ready.
But there is a second face. The one that looks back at you and says: and now. What will you do differently?
What comes next depends, more than we like to admit, on how honestly we are willing to look at what we kept choosing, and why, and what that cost us, and what we are finally ready to stop paying.
The most important conversation in your healing is not always the one about them.
Sometimes it is the one about you. The one you have been postponing.
The one that starts: if I am honest with myself —
Start there. Everything true is on the other side of that sentence.