TESTED AND TORN, BUT I CARRY ON
There are days when the weight feels a little too much. When I’m caught in between love and pain, between holding on and letting go. It’s exhausting, not physically, but emotionally. Quietly. Silently.
Pain doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it just sits there, heavy and still. And I carry it with me. Every day.
Patience? I don’t even know how I’m still holding on. It feels like I’m constantly being tested. I keep telling myself to wait, to breathe, to give it time. But time doesn’t always heal like they say. Sometimes it just makes you numb.
And yet… I forgive. Again and again. Not because I forget, I don’t. The truth is, I remember everything. Every moment. Every silence. Every time I had to put myself back together quietly. But still, I forgive. Because love is still here. And because it matters to me.
Acceptance… I don’t know. Maybe I’m learning to accept that some things won’t ever feel fair. That not everything gets tied up neatly. That pain can live next to love.
And perseverance… that’s what I keep choosing, even when it hurts. Even when I feel like I’ve reached the end of my rope. Because deep down, I still care. I still hope. I still want to believe that everything I’m doing means something.
I’m tired. But I’m still here. Still holding on. Not because it’s easy, but because I still believe in what we have. Even if it’s not perfect. Even if it hurts.
Sometimes I wish things were simple. That love was enough. That good intentions could fix broken moments. That effort was mutual, not always one-sided. But life doesn’t work like that. Relationships don’t work like that.
I’ve been carrying so much. Not just emotions, but silence. The kind that builds over time, filling the gaps where understanding should’ve been. I keep waiting for something to change. For someone to notice. For effort to be returned, not just expected.
People say, “Don’t lose yourself in love.” But what if you already have? What if you gave so much of yourself that now you're trying to remember who you were before all this?
I miss the version of me that didn’t overthink everything. The one that wasn’t constantly questioning their worth or wondering if they were asking for too much just by needing the bare minimum, honesty, loyalty, and consistency.
Sometimes it feels like I'm living in survival mode. Smiling when needed. Laughing on cue. Carrying pain so quietly no one notices. But inside, it builds. And I don't know how many more layers I can take before it all spills over.
Still, I wake up and choose to try. Because I believe in chances. I believe in working things out. I believe people can change, grow, and be better if they want to.
But love is not a one-person job. It never has been.
So, here I am. Doing the best I can with what I have. Holding on because I see the value in what we’ve built, even if it’s messy. I still want to protect it. I still want to fight for it.
But I need to be met halfway. I need someone to choose me too, not just when it’s convenient, but when it’s hard. When it’s uncomfortable. When it means accountability.
I’ve forgiven more than I probably should have…
I’ve been patient far beyond what I thought I was capable of…
I’ve accepted things I never imagined accepting…
And I’ve persevered through more than anyone knows…
But I can’t keep losing pieces of myself to keep something alive. Not forever.
I’m learning that healing doesn’t always come from resolution. Sometimes it comes from release. From knowing you’ve done your part, you’ve given your heart, and now it’s time to breathe.
Maybe I don’t have all the answers right now. But I have clarity. And peace, even the smallest sliver of it, matters more to me than chaos disguised as comfort.
And if nothing else, at least I can say I loved fully, tried endlessly, and stayed true to myself.
What this journey has taught me, maybe more than anything, is that pain doesn’t always show up loudly. Sometimes, it’s quiet. It lingers in the background, hiding beneath routines, between conversations, under polite smiles.
You learn to carry it. You learn to live around it. And eventually, you even convince yourself it’s normal.
But it’s not.
And that’s the hardest part, realizing what you’ve tolerated. What you’ve accepted.
Because you loved…
Because you hoped…
Because you believed…
There’s something deeply bittersweet about growing through pain. It hardens you in some ways, but it also softens you. It teaches you how deep your patience runs. How far does your forgiveness stretch. How strong you really are, even on your lowest point, on your worst day.
And then there’s the waiting, the quiet, invisible kind.
Waiting for things to change…
Waiting for better…
Waiting for someone to finally see your worth without you having to beg for it…
That kind of waiting wears on you. But it also refines you.
I’ve come to learn that love without respect is noise. That peace is a form of love, too, one that can’t be sacrificed, not even for the person or the connection you care most about.
I’ve also learned that letting go isn’t always about walking away. Sometimes it’s about loosening your grip on the version of the story you wanted, on the expectations that never got met, on the hope that maybe was never yours to carry alone.
And still, I choose to love. Still, I choose to believe in healing.
I’m not bitter, just tired. Not hopeless, just cautious. Not cold, just learning to protect the parts of me I kept handing away too easily.
I know I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve let my emotions get the better of me. I’ve stayed quiet when I should’ve spoken up, and spoken up when silence would’ve been softer. But I’ve always meant well. And I’ve always led with heart.
If that isn’t enough for someone, then maybe they’re not meant to hold it.
But I won’t stop showing up for myself. I won’t stop trying to find joy in the little things. I won’t stop searching for light, even in the middle of the storm.
Because despite everything, the pain, the disappointment, the heartache, I still believe in love. I still believe in better. And I still believe I deserve both.
I may not have all the answers. I may still be figuring things out, one silent breakdown at a time. But I know that I’ve come too far to let pain define me. I’ve bent, but I haven’t broken. I’ve cried, but I never gave up.
This chapter has tested everything in me:
My patience…
My loyalty…
My strength…
My heart…
But even in the quiet battles no one sees, I’ve shown up. Every single day.
Maybe I’m not fully healed. Maybe I still carry the weight of what happened. But I’m still here. Still moving. Still hoping. And that, in itself, is a kind of victory.
No matter how heavy the days get, I’ll keep going, not because it’s easy, but because I deserve to see what’s on the other side of all this. I deserve peace. I deserve joy. I deserve a love that doesn’t hurt.
And I’ll get there, slowly, gently, in my own time.
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