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.

The Missed Call

At 4 am, my phone rang. I didn’t hear it. I was asleep.

It was Mum. She’s been calling around that time almost every day. Maybe she still thinks I’m in Japan, where it would be 11 am, a normal time to call. But I’m not there anymore, and she doesn’t always remember that.

Dementia plays strange games with time. It takes her somewhere between past and present, where days blur and logic drifts. But even in that fog, she remembers me enough to reach out. I felt a pang of guilt for missing the call. But also, a strange kind of comfort. Mum is still trying, still calling.

I miss her, but maybe it's the old version of her that I miss the most. Still, part of me wonder if her calls mean something more. Maybe deep down, she senses something's not right with me. Maybe even with her condition, she knows... Because mums just do.

Oh Mum, I'm getting stronger everyday. I'm holding on, doing the work, and I'll be okay. You know I've got this. I always do. 

I’ll call her back when she’s awake. And I’ll keep picking up, whenever I can. Because one day, the calls will stop...and I’ll miss even these early morning moments.

Healing Isn’t Always Visible

Here’s something I’ve had to learn the hard way: emotional trauma doesn’t just pause because other parts of my life are going well. In fact, when everything looks like it’s working. My job, my routines...that’s sometimes when the pain feels the most confusing. And honestly, the most isolating.

People assume that if you’re “doing well,” you must be okay. But I’ve had days where I’m smiling in a meeting or checking things off my to-do list, all while carrying something heavy inside. It’s a weird disconnect. Like I’m living two lives. And for a while, I thought maybe I was just being dramatic or ungrateful. But that’s not it.

What I’ve come to understand is that strength doesn’t mean being unaffected. It means I keep going, even when parts of me are still healing. It means I can hold joy in one hand and pain in the other. And still move forward...

Half-Built

I laid the bricks with calloused care,
Each stone a vow, each beam a prayer.
The hammer sang from noon to gloom.
While you locked yourself in that silent room.

I raised the walls against the storm,
You curled inside where it was warm.
I built a home, you built a tomb.
And still I knocked upon your room.

I carved our names in timber grain,
Through sweat and sun and aching strain.
The walls still bare, the floors undone.
You turned away, said you were done.

The roof not raised, the paint not dried,
Yet still you walked, no last goodbye.
You left the frame, the ghost, the gloom.
While I stood knocking on your room…

The Goodbye That Still Hurts: Grieving Love, Family, and a Dream That Won’t Let Go

It’s been about a month since my ex and I broke up, but some days still feel like it just happened. The pain doesn’t show up in the same way every day. Some days are numb, others quietly heavy. But then there are days like today that hit hard and unexpectedly.

Last night, I kept waking up from a recurring dream. Every time I fell back asleep, I re-entered the same story. I was at my ex’s house, surrounded by his family, and some people I didn’t know. At first, it seemed like I was there for some kind of gathering. But with each loop of the dream, the reality sank in: I wasn’t there to celebrate. I was there to pack up the last of my things. I was there to say goodbye.

There was one girl I didn’t recognize. My gut told me she was probably his new girlfriend. That part hurt. Not in a jealous way, but in the way that reminds you how quickly your place in someone else’s world can be filled.

I hugged everyone goodbye except for him. His mother, who had once welcomed me warmly, was nowhere to be found. But his father hugged me tightly as I cried in his arms. He didn’t say anything. But in that moment, he felt like the only one who truly saw me.

Today is Mother’s Day in Belgium, where I live. I think that’s what triggered it. I used to be invited to every family event. Birthdays, holidays, and especially Mother’s Day. Since I live and work abroad, and don’t have any family here, his family had become my sense of home. Losing that connection feels like losing more than a relationship. It feels like I’ve lost a piece of stability, a piece of myself.

What’s made the grief even harder is the way it ended. My ex was emotionally avoidant. He constantly suppressed his feelings, avoided real conversations, and never took responsibility for how he treated me. And when it all fell apart, his mother’s only response to him was: “She shouldn’t have tolerated your behavior.” As if the burden of change or accountability was never his to carry. As if my pain was just a poor choice I made.

I just don’t understand why someone’s learning experience has to come at the expense of traumatizing others. Why do we have to carry the scars of someone else’s emotional immaturity while they move on, seemingly unaffected?

But I didn’t tolerate it because I was weak. I tolerated it because I loved him, because I believed in the connection, and because I hoped he would grow. Now, I’m left grieving not only the relationship, but the life I imagined, the family I thought I was becoming part of, the future I thought we were building.

This pain is layered. It’s not just about missing him. It’s about missing the world I thought we were creating together. The closeness. The routine. The trust I tried to build. And on days like today, when everything reminds me of what I’ve lost, it feels overwhelming.

I’m sharing this because I know I’m not alone. Someone out there is probably feeling this same invisible grief. The kind that doesn’t always make sense to others, but feels so deeply real. If that’s you: I see you. You’re not crazy, and you’re not broken.

We gave our hearts honestly. And even if it wasn’t met with what we deserved, we still deserve healing. One day, this ache will ease. One day, we’ll feel like ourselves again.

But for now, I’m letting the pain breathe. And I’m trusting that this goodbye, no matter how slow or painful, is clearing space for something better.