The Personal Anchor

I used to think that if a friendship or relationship didn’t work out, it was because I did something wrong. Maybe I trusted too quickly. Perhaps I gave too much of myself too soon. I thought that loving hard meant I had to carry everything—my feelings, their feelings, the distance, the silence.

But I see it differently now. Loving deeply isn’t the mistake. The fundamental mistake is staying in spaces where I constantly have to teach someone how to love me, and still feel unseen. That’s where the ache begins.

I know I’m not the only one who’s felt this kind of burnout—the kind that isn’t just from work or stress, but from giving too much of yourself in spaces that don’t pour anything back into you. The kind that makes you wake up tired, not because you’ve done too much, but because you’ve been holding too much. Holding the silence, holding the effort, holding on to the hope that someone will change without being asked.

If you’re feeling that, I want you to know: you’re not dramatic. You’re not broken. You’re tired. And you have every right to be.

I remember sitting in my room one morning before the day started, exhausted. My body was rested, but my spirit wasn’t. I felt a heaviness in my chest, like something inside me had finally run out of fuel. And when I traced it back, it all led to the same place: I had been carrying a relationship that no longer suited me.

I was always the one trying—trying to be heard, teaching how I needed to be loved, holding space while mine kept getting smaller. I loved him and believed in his heart, but somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking. And that realization—quiet but cutting—broke something open inside me.

The day I decided to take space wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t marked by yelling or slamming doors. It was still. It was internal. It was a quiet kind of knowing that whispered, “You’ve done enough.” It was the moment I stopped performing emotional CPR on a relationship that had been flatlining for a long time.

I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t bitter. I was just… done.

Done shrinking myself. Done asking to be understood. Done teaching someone how to love me and watching them take notes they never planned to read.

And when I finally said “I need space”, it felt like an exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding for months.

What followed was grief. Real grief. I grieved the connection, but more than that, I grieved the version of myself that stayed too long, clung to potential, and kept rewriting disappointment into hope. I grieved the energy I gave without boundaries, the trust I offered without question.

But then came something else: relief.

I was relieved that I no longer had to explain the same feelings repeatedly. I was relieved I could cry without filtering myself, scream into a pillow without guilt, and sit with my emotions without translating them. I was relieved that I was choosing myself for the first time in a long time.

Then came clarity.

Clarity that love should never feel like a one-person job. That being emotionally supported isn’t a luxury—it’s a requirement that I don’t have to earn love by being easy to handle. That I can want more, and not be wrong for it.

The noise in my head—the confusion, the inner debate, the guilt that kept me spinning in circles—finally settled. And in the stillness, I heard something beautiful: my voice. Clear. Honest. Undeniable. And she said, “You deserve more than this.”

In that space, I began rediscovering myself. I found the parts of me I had put on hold: the girl who loves writing, the woman who wants to go back to college, the soul that’s drawn to philosophy, neuroscience, and healing, the part of me that’s endlessly curious, full of ideas, and ready to grow.

Choosing space didn’t mean I stopped loving him. It meant I started loving myself.

Looking back, I realize the space didn’t break me—it saved me. It gave me room to feel everything, process, and reclaim parts of myself I thought I had lost. It reminded me that I can change, outgrow, and evolve beyond relationships that can’t meet me in my fullness.

So to anyone who’s standing where I once stood—worn down, questioning your worth, trying to hold something that keeps slipping through your fingers—I want you to hear this:

It is not your job to shrink so someone else can feel secure. It is not your job to teach someone how to love you and still be left empty. You are not asking for too much. You are simply asking the wrong person.

And the most sacred thing you can do is choose yourself, even when it hurts. Even when you still love them. Even when it feels like everything might fall apart.

Because sometimes, it has to fall apart so you can finally return to you.