Letting go of my ex has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

And not because I believe he’s my soulmate. Not because I think we’re meant to be, or because I’m still holding out hope that someday we’ll circle back around and get it right. It’s hard to let go because so much of who I was—and who I became—was wrapped around him.

Seven years. Nearly eight. That’s not just a relationship. That’s a lifetime of memories, identities, seasons of growth and regression, milestones, arguments, reconciliations, shared routines, inside jokes, and a million little invisible threads that connected my life to his. And even when we weren’t “together,” we weren’t really apart. Two years of half-conversations, emotional ambiguity, unanswered questions, and those occasional moments that made it feel like maybe—just maybe—we still meant something to each other.

How do you grieve someone who’s always been just close enough to keep the hope alive?

The truth is, he wasn’t just a person I loved. He was the backdrop to some of my most formative adult years. I grew up with him. I stumbled through my twenties trying to figure out who I was, what I believed, how to love, how to exist in partnership—and he was there for all of it. Even when the relationship was fractured, even when we were toxic, even when he made me feel small, even when I knew—deep down—it wasn’t the kind of love that would ever lead me to peace… he was still there.

There’s something terrifying about detaching from someone who was your emotional anchor for so long—even if that anchor also sometimes pulled you under.

I think part of me believed that if I just waited long enough, if I just held on a little tighter, if I just proved my love through the chaos, he’d finally meet me halfway. I thought love was about endurance. About staying. About fighting for someone even when they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—fight for you. I equated suffering with depth. Confusion with passion. I thought missing him meant we were meant to be. I didn’t realize I was just repeating the ache of my childhood, trying to earn love from someone emotionally unavailable because it mirrored what I had always known.

He wasn’t cruel. But he was careless. He didn’t handle my heart with gentleness. He didn’t protect my softness. He loved in ways that were inconsistent, conditional, and self-focused—and because I was still learning how to love myself, I tolerated it. I told myself it was enough. That this was just what love looked like when two broken people were trying.

But what I see now is that we weren’t just broken—we were fundamentally misaligned.

Still, letting go is hard. Because there were good moments. Real ones. Quiet, tender, familiar ones that live in the softest corners of my memory. Moments that weren’t performative or toxic—just simple and safe. And it’s so easy to hold onto those fragments and pretend they were the whole picture.

But they weren’t. The truth is, I never felt fully secure with him. I always had to earn it. Walk on eggshells. Hold back parts of myself. I shrunk. I performed. I begged. I explained. I forgave things I wasn’t actually okay with. I cried in bathrooms so he wouldn’t have to feel bad about hurting me. I silenced my needs because I was afraid they’d drive him away. I spent years in a state of emotional hyper-vigilance, always bracing for the distance, the coldness, the withdrawal I knew would come eventually.

And yet—I loved him. Deeply. Desperately. Fully. I thought that if I could love him hard enough, I could heal him. Heal us. But I was wrong. Love can’t fix people who don’t want to change. Love can’t bloom where there’s no emotional safety. Love can’t flourish where accountability is met with defensiveness and intimacy is only granted in fragments.

So why is it still so hard?

Because I’m not just grieving him. I’m grieving the version of me that believed in him. The girl who thought this story would end differently. The one who built a home in someone who never really stayed. I’m grieving the hope. The loyalty. The memories. The comfort of what was familiar, even if it wasn’t healthy. I’m grieving the time. The sheer volume of years I gave to a connection that never fully gave back.

And I’m grieving what I wanted it to be. What I convinced myself it could be. That’s maybe the hardest part—the death of the fantasy.

Even now, I sometimes wonder: will anyone know me like he did? Will anyone understand the inside jokes, the shared language, the history? Will I ever laugh like that with someone else? Will anyone fit into my story as deeply as he did?

Because here’s the truth I have to say out loud, even if it complicates everything: some part of me still loves him. Not in the way I used to—not in a way that would make me go back. But in a quiet, imprinted way. He left a mark on me. Our relationship carved something into my emotional blueprint. That kind of imprint doesn’t just vanish. It fades, it softens, it loses power over time—but it’s still there. And that’s okay. That’s human.

I can still feel the imprint without letting it guide me.

Letting go isn’t a one-time event. It’s a slow unraveling. A thousand tiny goodbyes. A daily decision to choose yourself over the story you thought you were supposed to be in.

So today, I remind myself: I can love someone and still walk away. I can honor what we had and still admit it wasn’t right. I can be grateful and broken and relieved all at once.

I don’t have to keep waiting for the ending to feel perfect. Closure doesn’t always come with clarity or peace. Sometimes it’s just the moment you stop trying to rewrite the past and start writing something new.

And maybe that’s what healing really is—finally making space for the life that was waiting for me on the other side of him.