Love is Not.....

There’s a grief that sits deeper than heartbreak. It’s not just from the bruises you can’t see. It’s from the part of you that begged to be loved… and begged in all the wrong places.

This is the grief of wanting love from the man who broke me. This is the shame of chasing crumbs in a house I thought was a home.

I look back and ask myself—how could I have wanted it so badly? How could I have believed that if I was just gave more, was more quiet, more spiritual, more forgiving, more loving, gave up more of who I was, basically proved my love to him…That eventually, he’d see me. He’d choose me. He’d cherish me.

But that moment never came. Because the man I wanted love from was never interested in giving love—only in taking it.

He loved my loyalty—but only when it served him. He loved my softness—but only so he could shape it into silence. He loved my faith—but only when it could be used to keep me under his control.

And still, I wanted his love. I ached for it. I twisted myself into something smaller, sweeter, more obedient—hoping maybe this version of me would finally be enough.

That ache? It comes with shame. A shame I still wrestle with.

Because somewhere along the line, I started believing that needing love made me weak. That craving tenderness from someone who gave only cruelty made me pathetic.

But here’s what I know now:

The shame doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to him.

There’s a particular kind of pain that comes not from being broken, but from being reshaped.

From slowly cutting off pieces of who you are, over and over again, just to fit into a version of yourself someone else created.

He had a box for me. A small, rigid, airless box. He called it “God’s design.” He called it “biblical.” He called it “love.”

But it was never love. It was control dressed up in religion. Submission confused with silence. Sacrifice twisted into self-erasure.

Inside that box, I was allowed to be quiet—but not outspoken. Supportive—but never questioning. Faithful—but only to his interpretation of truth.

Every time I had a thought, a boundary, a dream, a desire—I had to decide: Do I keep this part of me, or do I survive another day in this box?

So I shrank. I softened my voice. I swallowed my anger. I hid my intelligence. I censored my joy. I buried my intuition.

And little by little, I disappeared.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was slow. Subtle. Palatable at first. It looked like compromise. It sounded like devotion.

But deep down, I knew: I was becoming a stranger to myself.

I’d catch glimpses sometimes—of the old me. The one who laughed too loudly, questioned too often, felt too deeply. She didn’t fit in his world. So I tucked her away like a secret. Like shame.

And here’s the thing that hurts the most: I thought I was being holy. I thought I was being strong. I thought I was being good.

But I wasn’t being good. I was being obedient to a lie.

I was giving up everything I was to protect a man’s fragile illusion of power.

And in return, I got approval—conditional, temporary, always just out of reach. I was praised when I was quiet. Ignored when I needed. Punished when I resisted.

That’s not marriage. That’s not faith. That’s not family.

That’s a box. And a box is not a home. A box is a coffin for the parts of you that make you you.

But I’m crawling out now. And every time I reclaim something I gave up—my voice, my body, my boundaries—I grieve and I celebrate all at once.

Because I miss the woman I used to be. But I’m also learning that she’s still here. And I get to meet her again, this time without apology.

And if you’re reading this, holding your own ache in your chest, wondering how you could have wanted love from someone who broke you—let me tell you what I’m telling myself:

You are not foolish. You are not weak. You were never unworthy.

You just needed love. And now, you get to learn what real love feels like—starting with your own.

To the one still aching—this is for you:

If you are still there—still hoping, still bending, still waiting for love to arrive in a house where pain always shows up first—please hear me:

Your need to be loved is not shameful. Your desire for connection is not weakness. Your longing to be seen, chosen, and cherished is not too much.

But you do not have to keep bleeding to earn love. You do not have to keep shrinking to stay safe. You do not have to keep begging to be worthy.

You are allowed to want love that doesn’t hurt. You are allowed to say no to what breaks you. You are allowed to walk away—even if your voice shakes, even if you’re still not sure how the story ends.

Freedom doesn’t come all at once. Sometimes, it starts with a whisper: I deserve more. Let that whisper grow.

Because you are not alone. You are not too broken to be whole. And you are not too far gone to come back to yourself.

Start there. You are worth the journey home.