Where Love Heals

When we first met, I thought I had found a place to rest—a home. I didn’t realize that while I was searching for peace, you were searching for an escape.

To me, home is softness. It is quiet laughter, gentle mornings, blooming flowers, and a love that feels safe enough to grow. But your idea of refuge was different. You reached not to hold, but to unravel—to pull someone apart so you could momentarily forget the pieces of yourself you were still struggling to face. Your comfort lived in shadows—self-pity, judgment, and the illusion of control.

It’s true what they say: we often don’t understand what we have until it’s gone. That truth belongs to both the beautiful and the broken.

I don’t feel anger toward you anymore. I don’t even feel sadness. What I feel now is clarity—and, strangely, gratitude. You showed me parts of myself I had forgotten were still alive. You reminded me that my heart, though tested, is still full—vast, open, and capable of a love that is deep and unwavering.

And now I know: that love is not something to be given where it is diminished. It is something to be shared where it is honored.
You once said I was broken.
You were wrong.

If anything, I was becoming—learning how to gather my own pieces, how to stand in my own strength, how to be my own hero. And the irony is not lost on me: while you doubted my worth, you were the very catalyst that led me to discover it.

I hope one day you stop searching for darkness to feel whole. I hope you learn that building yourself up should never require tearing someone else down. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll begin to understand what a real home feels like.

As for me, I know now—I am not something to escape from. I am something to cherish.

JMS