Liberation

I never thought this day would come. The day I could breathe without you in my thoughts, the day I could smile without feeling the weight of our past. But today was different. Today, I felt light...and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t think about you once.

This morning, as I walked to the office, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron played in my head. I’d been humming it in the shower, over and over again. It’s funny, because that song has never been in any of my playlists, never once. Yet, there it was, lingering in my mind like an echo of something I couldn’t quite shake.

Maybe the song was trying to pull me back to the night we met, back to when everything felt so simple and pure. Maybe it wanted me to undo all the things between us, to erase the pain you left behind. The hurt I could never escape.

But today, it hit me: I don’t need to go back. I don’t need to rewrite the past to feel whole. Today, I’m with someone who treats me the way I deserve. The kind of love I didn’t know was possible, the kind that reciprocates. He sees me. And in that, I found something I never thought I’d have again. Peace.

And so, for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel bitterness toward you. I’m not angry. I’m not wishing you misery. I’m just here, living, happy. And I wish the same for you.

Today, I had fun. Today, I didn’t think about you. Today, I found joy again.

Whose Story Is This, Anyway?

Funny how we always assume we’re the protagonist in our own story. Every moment, every setback, every victory, we center ourselves like the main character in a grand narrative. It’s natural, I guess. It helps us make sense of the chaos. But lately, I’ve been grappling with a twist I didn’t see coming: what if I’m not the hero in someone else’s version of this tale?

Worse, what if I’m the antagonist?

There’s someone in my life, or maybe no longer in my life, who hurt me deeply. In my story, they’re the villain. The plot-thickener. The one who triggered a season of grief, reflection, and growth. But here’s the part that stings: while I’m still processing, replaying scenes, trying to rewrite meaning into every line… I have a feeling they’re out there living their best life.

Smiling. Moving on. Maybe even thriving.

Sometimes I wonder: if they were writing this chapter, what would my character be called? A lesson? A mistake? A shadow in the background? What role do I play in their story? Am I a bad memory? A joke? Just someone who showed up and left? Or worse… would I even be in the book?

But maybe that’s just how life works. We’re all writing our own story, and sometimes we’re the hero. Other times, we’re the villain. And a lot of the time, we’re just background characters in someone else’s scene. And somehow, that has to be enough.

I Think I'm Healing

Yesterday after work, I ended up at Waterstones, not really planned, just... needed to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere full of stories that aren't mine. The English bookstore in Brussels always feels like a good place to disappear without actually disappearing.

I asked the owner if they had Good Material by Dolly Alderton. Of course it was sold out! People want real, messy love stories. I do too. I almost picked up one of Mitch Albom's books too, but maybe next time. It's nice to have a reason to go back.

I still bought three books, and a ridiculous little gold glitter pen. I told myself it's for highlighting beautiful sentences, or maybe I just needed to hold something shiny. Something that says,"I'm paying attention again."

Dinner was fried chicken. Felt like something... not being dramatic, but it's important! My therapist finally named it yesterday. The eating disorder I've been quietly wrestling. I didn't even realize how much space it's taken up until someone else saw it. My friends, my colleagues, my therapist... Fried chicken. It felt like reclaiming something. I don't know what exactly. Joy?

On the bus home, The Edge of Heaven by Wham! was playing in my ears. It made everything feel like a montage. Me, with my bag of books. That 80s synth energy felt oddly perfect. Nostalgic, a little dramatic. It reminded me of being young. Funny that I said that, I'm just 29! But it gives me a strange comfort of knowing the edge doesn't always mean a fall. Sometimes, it's just a new beginning. I caught myself smiling again...

This morning, therapy again. We talked a lot more than usual. He didn't care about the time, didn't rush me. That alone made me feel safe. He said he doesn't see the signs of depression anymore. "I hope you're not hiding anything!" I'm not, I think.

He mentioned EMDR, for my C-PTSD. Five years is a long time to carry something like that. I didn't say yes nor no. Just... sat with it. It scares me.

After the session, I grabbed an iced latte from Lloyd Café, asked for an extra shot of espresso. But the waitress gave me two full of coffees instead. Whatever. I drank it anyway. Small mistakes don't feel like the end of the world anymore.

On the train to the office, Sweet Disposition by The Temper Trap came on. That opening... always catches me off guard. It made everything outside the window feel soft, and slow, and beautiful. Like the whole city had a pulse I could finally feel again. "A moment, a love, a dream, a laugh, a kiss, a cry..." I let it play all the way through.

And now, I'm here. Writing this. Feeling... so much better. Not all better. Not done. But better.
I think I'm healing.
I think I might be okay.
Maybe even more than okay.
I hope it keeps going!

I'm Glad You Don't

"He told me he never loved me." I said to my therapist.

"And how did you feel about that?"

"I don't know... I just don't understand how someone could say something cruel like that." I answered.

"I'm glad you don't. Not understanding cruelty is not a weakness." she replied.

I'm glad you don't. Not understanding cruelty is not a weakness.
I'm glad you don't. Not understanding cruelty is not a weakness.
I'm glad you don't. Not understanding cruelty is not a weakness.

Unmade

A stubborn flicker in the night.
I’m still here, I don’t know why.
Not living, but I’m too tired to die.