Raw.Real.Recovered.

Trigger Warning: Raw thoughts, grief, heartbreak.

This isn’t a pity post. It’s not some desperate attempt for attention or sympathy or comfort. It’s just the truth—the kind that tastes like blood when you speak it out loud. So if you’re looking for inspiration or silver linings, turn back now. This is the part of the story most people skip over because it’s too damn uncomfortable. Too real.

The world keeps confirming a truth I’ve fought my whole life:

That I’m the exception to the fairytale.

That I’m the one who gets passed over.

That love—true, safe, stay-when-it’s-hard, build-something-real love—was never meant for me.

And don’t hit me with the “You’ll find someone” speech. Please.

I’ve heard it. I’ve said it to myself. Hell, I’ve tattooed it on the inside of my soul just to have something to hold onto. But there comes a point when hope starts to feel like delusion. When waiting for someone to prove you wrong starts to feel like a setup for disappointment.

I wanted to believe. I really did.

Because I do see the good in people.

I do want to believe that love is possible and lasting and honest.

I did think I found it.

And now I’m grieving something that feels like a death.

Except the body’s still breathing.

It’s just not mine to hold anymore.

I’m grieving what I thought I had.

The intimacy. The possibility. The connection that I swore was different.

I went through sadness. Depression. Then rage.

Then back to sadness again like I’m stuck on some carousel of pain that doesn’t know how to stop spinning.

But here’s the truth I’ve been avoiding, choking on, resisting:

Maybe love—the way I thought it should feel—just isn’t coming for me.

And maybe that’s not as tragic as it sounds.

Maybe the sooner I stop bleeding myself dry to chase a dream that was never written in my story,

The sooner I’ll stop hurting over it.

This doesn’t mean I hate life. I’m not numb or empty or hollow.

I’m fascinated by the world. I want to live.

But I have to let this version of love die.

The one that’s broken me more than it ever built me.

So this is the beginning.

Not of some “new chapter” wrapped in sunshine and self-help quotes.

But of the truth.

Brutal. Honest. Grounding.

I will accept the hand I’ve been dealt.