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.

Trusting the Unknown

Some days start with a quiet kind of pain. It settles in before I even open my eyes, heavy and familiar.

The hardest part is not blaming myself, for what happened, for what didn’t. I listened to a podcast once that said dating a “hunter” can make even a lion question his worth as king of the jungle. Because the hunter is always the one who tells the story, not the lion.

And the lion? He’s territorial. Proud. Born to lead. But once he’s been hunted, something inside him begins to erode. He doubts his strength. He questions his instincts. He forgets who he is.

The psychologist in that podcast said leaving this kind of relationship isn’t just painful but it can feel like heroin withdrawal. Because it’s not just emotional. It’s physical. It’s in your bones. Your brain screams for the thing that broke you. You shake. You ache. You want to go back just to stop the pain, even when you know it wasn’t real safety. It was survival.

And while the lion is down, confused, trying to rebuild, the hunter moves on. Finds another lion to chase. Because the hunt was never about connection. It was about control.

Still, I try to believe that this uncertainty, this ache, might lead somewhere better. I’m still trying to process if I can be a lion again, although deep down, I know I’ve always been one. But after being hunted, even lions forget.

I don’t have answers. I don’t always have hope. But I get up anyway. Because maybe, just maybe, something gentle waits on the other side of this pain.

And I hope, someday, I’ll meet my other lion. One who never needed to hunt to feel strong. One who stands beside me. One who remembers who I was before I forgot.