a retired lover girl’s manifesto.
a story on letting go of love, and having it come back. this is the first in a collection of essays discussing everything i've ever come to know about love that nobody ever tells us
I think the toughest thing I’ve had to come to terms with is that everything I’ve ever come to know about love, I’ve learned through losing it—through having many experiences where I thought I was finally able to capture it, only to have it slip right through my fingers. In the aftermath, I experienced grief so raw that it stripped me bare and left me exposed—with no one left to blame but the face in the mirror staring back at me.
I could see my reflection clearly at first, but as the hurt piled on, I attempted half-hearted repairs, unable to recognize my need to heal. Over time, my reflection became so distorted—fragments of who I was fell off in shards as I kept reopening the same wounds. They tried to grab my attention on the way down—glittering for a moment before falling to the floor with an unceremonious clink. But in blissful ignorance, I glued them back on, thinking that my refusal to break would bring me the love I always desired—that my commitment to “earn” love would pay off eventually. In the end, I was wrong.
The year was 2020, and I was freshly single during COVID after a long term relationship. Having been unfamiliar with modern dating culture, I fell prey to the same advice that is parroted all over social media. It seemed harmless at first, but the more I consumed that content, the more I forgot to remember that I was supposed to be the expert of my own life—that these hot takes rejected the nuance needed to make sense of my relationship failures.
A fundamental lack of trust in myself, or perhaps a misplaced sense of humility made me too susceptible to outside voices, and it took me years before I stopped listening to the opinion of others.
Back then, I thought I needed to watch a stranger tell me all the ways in which I’ve “icked” out men while she puts her makeup on. But what I actually needed was to have trust in my own insight and have faith in my own answers.
I didn’t need to play hard to get—I needed to take the time to process without shame, remembering the value in being able to give myself closure and validation, especially when nobody else could.
I thought making space for outside perspectives would help me avoid my own bias, but it always backfired in the end. No matter how well intentioned the listener was, no exhaustive list of actions, words, or behaviors could ever replace the lived experience of the relationship itself—nuance and complexity will always be lost in each retelling. After all, how can you even begin to explain a relationship’s emotional landscape? How can you argue the validity of all the words unspoken—the shared glances, the quiet tension that was never verbally expressed, but always duly felt? After years of trying to prove otherwise, I felt defeated in admitting that no one could seem to engage with my story in the way I needed—for better or for worse, only I seemed to care enough to fully understand its depth.
While in the past, my judgment could be clouded by projection and grief, I decided that the truth was more important than my feelings this time—a decision that I suspect largely coincided with me maturing in my mid 20s. I became dedicated to reclaiming my relationships in a way that honored not only my perspective, but also that of the other person’s. What once seemed like a potential pitfall transformed into a treasure trove of knowledge. The deeper I dove, the richer the insight. With this in mind, love gave me its first lesson…
Lesson #1: people are mirrors.
The most brutal breakups I’ve ever experienced always began in similar fashion. A man that had either willingly become my boyfriend or otherwise introduced safety into the relationship through actions, words, or both—suddenly would pull out the rug from under me. The first time it happened, I was completely blindsided, but as this pattern of behavior continued with others, I became hyperaware to specific moments in those relationships where I felt a complete shift in my partner’s affection towards me. After a major conflict, an expression of needs, a moment of vulnerability, or even a clarification of boundaries, my ex partners’ feelings would shut off like a light switch—whether I addressed this openly or not, the relationships ended in the same way.
An inevitable breakup conversation would ensue, where they would launch into a list of things they didn’t like about me—flaws or faults that, unbeknownst to me, had bothered them deeply, yet were never up for discussion. They made assumptions without bothering to confirm my feelings and assigned deficiencies to my character that I felt were a gross misrepresentation of who I really was. Even if I tried to clarify—even if I was working to improve whatever flaw they couldn’t stand this time, it didn’t matter. Despite being in a partnership, they had made a unilateral decision. Nothing I did afterwards mattered because they were determined to leave, and picking me apart was their way to justify it.
Themes of my partners feeling controlled, being unable and unwilling to provide reassurance after a major breach of trust, and upholding me to impossible standards of perfection, were always present.
If I dared to express how jarring their sudden change of heart was in contrast to all the ways they made me believe in their investment, I was gaslit—met with more vagueness, contradiction and blame. There was no acknowledgement of the disillusionment I would face in an attempt to pick up the pieces—no understanding that the massive incongruity between our experiences would begin to make me doubt my own reality, lacing every happy memory in our relationship with poison. I could not look back at old pictures or videos of us without feeling bitter. In light of my ex partners’ confessions, every action prior felt performative. None of the facts—direct observations of behavior or words spoken, aligned in a way that made logical sense. I couldn’t come to a conclusion.
I knew these were not normal breakups. But since it’s not a crime to change your mind, I mostly stuck to no contact and resisted chasing after them. Though these relationships were shorter in length, I always left devastated, feeling that my own perception of reality had been completely shattered. I had no idea how to move forward because I began to feel that I could no longer trust my own memories or believe in the integrity of others.
In my naivety and hurt, I told my ex partners about the unmistakable behavior of dismissive avoidant attachment that I noticed—not to change their minds, but to put words to an experience that felt too psychologically damaging to normalize and too dangerous to ignore. While all of them would eventually acknowledge and confirm my suspicions to some degree, I’ve come to understand that I put far too much energy into making sense of their behavior, when I should have been trying to understand my own.
I wish I could travel back in time to tell myself what I know now—which is that it was never enough to simply identify all the red-flags I should avoid next time—it would never save me from finding emotionally unavailable men, because I could never control or reliably predict how they would show up before the mask would fall—there was too much variety. The only person I could ever control was myself—the way I showed up, the pace I set, the boundaries I enforced, the safety I felt. Radically changing those things was my only shot at ending this brutal cycle of idealization, devaluation, and discard that partners of avoidant attachers often face. So, I turned inwards—questioning everything I thought I knew about myself—about the beliefs I had carried into relationships.
Where did they come from? How did they shape the way I showed up in love? I took my ex partners’ hurtful feedback to heart, examining my actions with honesty. As answers slowly rolled in like waves at low tide, I wondered how I could dismantle beliefs that no longer served me, how I could rewire a nervous system to be capable of making me feel safe again?
In looking back at my life, I compare this moment of intentional healing to a catalyst that ends up forever changing the way I date, fall in love, and attach to others. It felt like I had finally broken a curse, cast on me long ago by a wicked witch—who, after seeing that I had stopped abandoning myself, finally shed her cloak and revealed her true form to me—a fairy godmother, who nodded on in approval as she watched me develop more secure dating habits, address my insecurities, and develop a healthy relationship with myself.
And just like that, after months of internal work, she flourished her wand. With a sharp crack, the mirror in which I’d always seen myself, fell with a deafening crash. It shattered me into thousands of tiny pieces, skittering across the floor like ice, scattered in every direction. Scanning the wreckage, I knew I would never be the same. As I fell to my knees, desperately trying to scoop up the debris, I realized with deep sadness, that there were too many fragments now—too many jagged shards, broken beyond repair. With all these new pieces, I could never hope to reassemble a version of me that wasn’t so painfully warped. Heartbreak had pushed me past the point of no return. Unable to see and shrouded in darkness, I could no longer find my way back to my old sense of self.
It took me many months to lick my wounds and say my goodbyes. Maybe past me had been a little bit too naive—too trusting and lacking in discernment. Still, I couldn’t deny her beauty—her vulnerability, her innocence—the value in the depth and richness of love she could offer, one that only comes from a person that hasn’t been broken down by the cruelty of others just yet. It was a bitter pill to swallow when I realized I had not only lost touch with the parts of her that gave me anguish, but also the parts of her that brought me immense joy—that colored my entire world with broad paint strokes. Moreover, as she had been in the driver’s seat my entire life, I was simply lost without her.
Eventually, I came to the conclusion that I had no choice but to move forward, even if it meant bumbling around in the dark. Others had assured me that progress wasn’t linear—that eventually the work I was putting in would pay off, so I patiently continued to feel my way around, before realizing I was not doomed to stay broken.
Yes, I had sustained irreparable damage, tragically losing the only lens in which I had come to see myself. But in the ruins, I remembered a way forward—through a lens I had ignored for too long. It was a tool that I’d overlooked in past relationships—one I had dismissed because I knew it would reflect back parts of me that I was not ready to see. This new lens wouldn’t blur out my imperfections, and it would not come with a generous filter. However unflinching and harsh its light may be, I was drawn to it because it offered a sure path to clarity and promised to grant me a self love that would never waver again. Although it required confronting my deepest traumas, I felt it was worth it, because I knew it would change the course of my life. No longer did I want to look away from the face of healing—this time, I wanted to fly directly into the sun.
In hearing this, you might assume I was burnt to a crisp—but the good news is that while I initially struggled to face the heat and acknowledge all that I’ve been avoiding, eventually my body adjusted. It turns out that pain doesn’t always break you—sometimes, it frees you. Like a blacksmith, I spent months hammering, shaping, and reforging myself in the fire, and like any other season of life that brings about major change, there were many moments where I wanted to give up. The transition from lover girl to the person I am today felt never ending—progress felt stagnant every time I relapsed in grief. I was impatient to heal because somewhere along the lines, I’d latched onto a belief that suffering in any way, whether it meant having a bad day or feeling negative emotions, meant I was failing in my pursuit of healing—which I believed should make me happier.
While achieving healing is a worthy goal, I had to adjust my expectations. To me, healing isn’t meant to be a constant state of being, but rather something that remains in flux. I don’t judge my healing progress from the number of bad days I have, or the amount of times I cry over something upsetting. I don’t contribute it to my relationship status, or how I feel about my follower count on social media. My definition of healing is entirely internal—and I’ve associated it with the newfound feeling of radical acceptance I have for my life and who I am today.
There are days in which I will feel insecure, but that doesn’t make me not confident. There are days in which I’ll be sad, but that doesn’t make me unhappy. Feelings only last anywhere from 30-90 seconds, and thoughts of shame that occasionally creep up don’t have to be taken as fact.
It felt all too natural to hold myself to standards of perfection that were imposed on me by others—whether it be family, friends, or ex partners. I thought I should always put on a brave face and never express anything negative, lest I was prepared to be abandoned. However, in doing so, I was shouldering the weight of their projections, which was extremely unfair.
Once I healed, I stopped holding onto resentment. I found forgiveness for mostly everybody who had ever hurt me in this way, because I knew that their discomfort came from a similar place. Deep down, I knew that they were also never given the permission to feel or think negatively, let alone express it and seek comfort—so their actions, their inability to accept me as I was and give me space to be human—it wasn’t as personal of a condemnation or as cruel of a rejection as I thought.
Perhaps they had spoken harshly, but I could accept that the underlying message was that we were just not compatible, and that wasn’t anybody’s fault. So I set boundaries or otherwise removed myself from these relationships, leaving behind all that lacked the capacity to give me grace. From then on, I decided to only invest in others if they could meet me where I’m at today.
Committing to this level of self acceptance brought about rapid changes that I finally saw after months of agony. Suddenly, it was as if all the work I’d done on myself finally compounded, and I woke up one day feeling at peace. The inner critic that had taken residence in my mind for 28 years had been evicted. I felt my grief for my ex partner transform into a different type of love—one without attachment—one that accepts we are not right for each other and sincerely hopes he finds what he is looking for, even if I never do.
I found new girl friends that unexpectedly made me feel seen, understood, and chosen for the first time in my life. Feeling safe—I found myself being able to live in the moment, take things day-by-day, and let go of my need to control the future or ruminate destructively over my past. All of the healthy behaviors I had been working on suddenly came to fruition, and I felt I had stepped into an entirely new body with a new lease on life.
It’s not to say that my ex partners were in the right for picking me apart in our breakup conversations—or that their cruelty was justified in the end. When I say that people are a mirror, it doesn’t mean that their feedback is always true or justified. Rather, I’m saying that if you have the courage to face your pain head on and look inwards, you will discover parts of yourself that will allow you to sketch out the blueprint of who you are. In understanding your origin, not only do you gain the ability to make peace with your past, but also the chance to chart a new map, taking you to a new destination—one that is more aligned with everything you need and deserve.
While in hindsight, I recognize all the ways in which I contributed to my romantic failures, it doesn’t mean that I’m entirely at fault for being a person that can’t hold onto love. Although there are always areas for improvement, whether or not a relationship succeeds has so much to do with factors entirely outside of our control, and just because I’m more healed, doesn’t mean I’ll find the love I deserve. It doesn’t mean I’ll be immune to heartbreak. There are millions of wonderful people in the world who have even better qualities than me who remain single, and I would be amiss to blame their status all on them.
No matter where you’re at in life, it is so incredibly painful to lose someone you love. When love has never been abundant in your life, when it has always left—it is difficult to release your grip on it when it happens to visit. Until this past relationship, I had never grieved so heavily, because I lost not only the person I loved, but a future, sense of safety, and a version of me that I deeply cherish—one that truly believed she could hold onto love this time, if she just proved herself enough.
When things ended with my ex partner, I had finally accumulated enough proof over the span of my life to conclude that my ideas about love, my beliefs—my desires, were all wrong. I thought I might as well give up, since love clearly wasn’t for me. It took everything in me to release myself of these old dreams—to let go of wanting to love and be loved in return, a desire so human that most would be aghast if they had to do the same.
But something interesting happened when I finally did let go of it. I thought in releasing my attachment and allowing my love to transform, I would receive nothing in return—that I would be the designated loser of the breakup with nothing to show for it. Strangely enough, when I had just given up on having expectations, love decided to come back to me—love decided to stay.
I didn’t meet a man, if you’re curious—that’s not the form in which love came back. Instead, love for myself—that was true, unconditional, and overflowingly abundant, wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders when I was freezing at the dog park in February earlier this year. And since then, love has stopped being proof of loss, but rather, evidence that I should stay.