“Now, I walk into work with anxiety already lodged in my chest. My heart feels tight before I even sit down. Saying that out loud makes me emotional, because it’s the first time I’ve really allowed myself to feel the grief of what I lost.”

I told people I moved because of the commute. And technically, that was true. But the real reason? I couldn’t be there anymore. Not after him. He never officially lived with me, but his presence lingered in every drawer, every routine, every silence. A year later, I’ve finally made space—for peace, for growth, for myself. This isn’t just about an apartment. It’s about the moment I stopped chasing and started choosing me.

But instead, he’s calculated. Pretending to listen, but really just waiting for his turn to talk. You could feel it—that low-level resentment bubbling under the surface, like me existing comfortably made him deeply uncomfortable.

What if caring for yourself—truly caring—is the most radical thing you can do?

“What’s the digital dating equivalent of seeing a roach on a shirt? What’s the moment that finally makes me close the app and never come back?”

I love my fucking avocado toast, and I don’t care what anyone says about it. It’s a small ritual, but it’s mine. And it makes me feel grounded.

I think of myself as a child, sitting at a desk after school, doing my homework. No one ever had to ask. No one ever helped. I just did it—every day—hoping that being good and quiet and capable would be enough.

Because sometimes healing feels like it’s only worthwhile if it’s leading somewhere. To a relationship. To becoming the kind of person who deserves the kind of person you’re trying to attract. Like it’s this character arc where you fix your issues, glow up emotionally, and end up with someone who also went to therapy and drinks green juice.

I’m tired of trying to optimize my suffering.