Where Grief Ends, I Begin

They never prepare you for what it means to date after you’ve already lost love

in its most final form.

After you’ve kissed goodbye

to the one you thought you’d grow old with.

After you’ve held a funeral and still had to make dinner that night for the babies who needed you

to keep going.

After you’ve walked through fire

and learned how to dress your scars like they were part of the outfit.

They never tell you

how hard it is to look someone new in the eyes

and pretend your heart isn’t calculating the weight of risk with every blink.

I took the time.

To break.

To unravel.

To ask God hard questions,

and sit in silence when He didn’t answer right away.

I had to rebuild— not just trust, but taste.

What feels good, what feels right, what feels like home and what feels like danger dressed in cologne.

Then one day, I started saying yes.

Not to forever— but to moments.

To discovery.

To little flickers of maybe.

Some moments stayed with me.

Like the date where we spent the whole day

talking about nothing and everything, like time finally took its hands off the clock.

Or the time I lost a race but felt like I won something sacred— a memory that reminded me I could still feel free, even if just for the night.

Others…

not so much.

Like the date where he told me he had it covered— only to look shocked when the bill came

and suddenly I was reaching for my wallet.

Or when “We’ll split it”

turned into “You got it, right?”

That kind of math

never adds up to love.

Some dates left no imprint at all.

Just empty chairs and half-effort conversations.

But here’s the difference now:

I don’t shrink to make someone else feel whole.

I don’t lose myself just to be loved.

I used to.

But I’ve changed.

When you’ve been through

the kind of loss that alters your DNA,

you don’t just “date.”

You discern.

You read energy before words.

You feel intention in tone.

You notice what they try to hide,

and what they hope you’ll accept.

When you’ve been the girl no one stayed for,

the woman who had to learn how to stay for herself— you move differently.

And you love like survival isn’t a maybe,

but a rhythm you know by heart.

I still believe in love.

But not the kind that performs.

I believe in love that shows up,

and stays when it’s inconvenient.

I believe in the quiet kind—

the steady kind—

the kind that feels like breath

and not adrenaline.

Dating in this world isn’t soft.

But I am.

And that softness?

That’s earned.

That’s sacred.

That’s mine.

Because after everything— I still show up.

Still open.

Still willing.

And if someone sits across from me now,

they better understand:

they’re not meeting a woman desperate to be chosen— they’re meeting a woman who already is.