Because we care. No, not for “them”, not even for ourselves. We’re invested in the fairytale that was sold to us: the prince, the wedding, the horse, and the bloody castle. And we want it all, not caring what we sacrifice to get it. We think that’s a success, or worse… happiness. But no fairytale tells us what happened after the wedding. Did they live happily ever after? What did the prince do when the doors closed and the curtains were pulled? Was she happy? We are left to assume she was. And because we are fed that all our lives, we stay.

We Stay…

We stay beyond the first curse word, insult, lie, slap, punch… life-threatening trauma? What makes us say enough is enough? Relationships don’t end due to a lack of love. There are so many more important things than love in a couple. That bursting, blind, uncontrollable passion that fuels our inhumane desire to devour each other’s energies like predators through love bombing, sex, unrealistic promises, ridiculous dreams that somehow we find resources to believe in… that’s madness. Madness is an essential ingredient of love but not the one that keeps us together. It fades away, leaving room for the other ingredients of love to manifest. Trust, reliability, teamwork, support, strength, REASON, depth… if we don’t have these invisible pillows to fall on, we break our hearts against the concrete wall and bruise our souls but we still don’t leave.

I remember the night I cried in the bathroom with the light off. He was in the other room, laughing at something on TV, and I sat on the cold tiles with my back against the door, holding my breath so he wouldn’t hear me. That’s how invisible I had become — even to myself.

I stayed because I kept telling myself, “Maybe it will improve.” I stayed because I didn’t want to fail. Because I thought if I tried harder, softer, more patiently — it would change. I stayed because I thought that choosing myself meant giving up on him. And giving up felt like a betrayal.

There’s this invisible thread that forms between you and someone you’ve shared your soul with. Even when the relationship turns into a quiet war, that thread can feel sacred. You convince yourself the connection is real — because it once was. And if it once was, maybe it still is. Maybe.

Sometimes, we confuse endurance with loyalty. We call it strength. But staying in a place where your spirit is dimming isn’t strength. It’s survival. Survival is never meant to be a long-term home.

The Darkness

When you stay too long in the dark, your eyes adjust.

You stop noticing the small ways you’ve changed — how your laugh became quieter, how you second-guess your words, how your joy started to feel like a burden. You tell yourself, “This is just how love is. Hard.” But deep down, you miss yourself.

There were days when I felt like a ghost of the woman I used to be. I had stopped writing. Stopped dreaming. I even stopped making eye contact with myself in the mirror. Because what would I say? “You don’t belong here?” I already knew.

The Breaking Point

We were two strangers playing house. I looked at him across the room and felt nothing—not anger, not sadness—just emptiness.

And that emptiness scared me more than pain ever did. Because pain meant I still cared. Emptiness meant I was already gone.

By then, the damage had already taken root. The kind that doesn’t always leave visible marks, but lives in your nervous system. The kind that makes you question your memory, your reality, your worth. I was constantly walking on eggshells, trying to manage the mood, avoid the explosion, and hold the fragile peace. There were lies, gaslighting, and moments of fear that I didn’t know how to name at the time — only that my body flinched before my mind caught up.

And still… I stayed.

I told myself that I was strong enough to endure it. That “love” meant staying through the storm. That it would get better.

But the truth? Some storms aren’t meant to be weathered — they’re meant to be walked away from. And no version of love should leave you afraid to be yourself.

That was the night I decided I wouldn’t die in this. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. But even then, I didn’t choose me. I chose a love greater than me, my son.

We stay until we find something greater than us.

We stay because we desperately need to believe in love, we need that so much that we start imagining love where it’s nothing. Like in the desert after hours of walking, thirsty and delirious, we see Fata Morgana and aim towards it even if it kills us with every step, we still go forward!

We tell ourselves that this illusion is better than emptiness. That something — even if it’s hollow, hurtful, or half-alive — is better than nothing at all. But the truth is, chasing a mirage doesn’t quench your thirst. It only deepens it. And somewhere along the way, we forget that real love doesn’t require us to crawl, bleed, or beg. Real love doesn’t vanish when we get closer — it meets us, holds us, and reminds us that we were never meant to suffer just to feel seen.

For Anyone Still Loving in the Dark

If you’re there now, still whispering “It’s not that bad” while your heart begs you to listen, I see you.

I know it’s scary to imagine a life outside of what you’ve built, even if what you’ve built is cracked. I know it hurts to leave someone you once pictured forever with. But you deserve to be seen. You deserve to be safe. You deserve to live in the light. I also know that you’ll not leave until you find a beacon of divine love, whether for you, for someone else, or something else. For me that divine ray of love that saved my soul from my cowardness was my son. For you, it could be something else, but whatever it is, it has to be a piece of heaven that pulls you out of hell, like an angel would once in a thousand years.

There’s no shame in staying too long. And there’s no weakness in leaving. There’s only the sacred, quiet return to yourself.

And the light?

It’s still there.

It’s waiting.

So are you.