THE QUIET BETWEEN "US"

 When Love Hurts

 There was a time when I thought love was supposed to hurt.
When I believed that the more, I endured, the more it proved how deeply I cared.

 No one ever taught me what real love looked like — what it was supposed to feel like. I was young, naive, and soft-hearted. I thought loving someone meant giving all of me, even when there was nothing left.

 I had a good heart — one that others saw as an opportunity to take advantage of. Little by little, I started disappearing.

        “Why are you trying to look pretty? You’re always going to be ugly.”

 The girl who once loved doing her hair, dressing up, laughing loud — she faded behind the words that cut deeper than any wound.  And so I stopped trying. I stopped seeing myself as someone worth loving.

Control Masquerading as Love

 It started subtly — a few comments, a few restrictions. But over time, he had control over everything: my body, my choices, my finances, my work, my life. I convinced myself that this was love.

That maybe this is how love was supposed to be — difficult, consuming, painful.

 Even in my denial, I knew something was wrong. I could feel myself losing control, piece by piece. I was sinking, but I kept finding reasons to stay.

I filled the emptiness with moments of softness — the few times he laughed, the few times he held me close, the rare days that felt “normal.” I clung to those small glimpses of love and used them to cover the pain, the fear, the loneliness.

 Until it all started to unravel.

The Betrayal

 The nights grew longer, the calls later, the messages colder. And then came the text — her message. Pictures. Words I didn’t want to believe. My heart sank before I even opened it because deep down, I already knew.

 He was cheating on me.

The man who told me I was his whole world was sharing pieces of himself with someone else.

When I confronted him, he begged. He cried. He swore it wasn’t true. And somehow, against every scream inside of me, I believed him. I wanted to believe him. Because believing meant I could hold on to the version of him I loved — or the version of him I created in my mind.

And for a little while, it worked. The bad moments disappeared, or at least I convinced myself they did. But pain has a way of coming back — and when it did, it hit harder than before.

I stayed,

Even when I knew I shouldn’t.
Even when my body ached from crying, when I prayed every night for God to remove him from my life, I stayed.

Because I thought that was love.

Love is supposed to feel like safety, not survival.

Losing Myself

I can still remember the girl I was before him — the light in her eyes, the way she smiled without fear, how she believed she could do anything. Somewhere along the way, she got buried under all the “you’re not enoughs” and “no one will ever want yous.”

No one taught me what real love was. I was so young, so naive, with a heart that wanted to give and be loved in return. And others saw that as weakness — as a way to take advantage.

I remember slowly disappearing, feeling myself fade, watching the girl I used to be — the one who loved dressing up, the one who did her hair just for fun — vanish under the weight of words and control.

A man controlled my body, my decisions, my work, my money, my life. I tried to convince myself I deserved this love, even as the abuse became undeniable.

The verbal attacks, the physical blows, the emotional manipulation — I remember crying myself to sleep every night, praying to God to remove him from my life.

And then there were the signs — the late nights, the late messages, the late calls, the messages from her with pictures that made my heart sink even further.

He begged me not to believe her. He cried. He swore it wasn’t true. And for a moment, I wanted to believe. And I did. And then the cycle repeated, over and over, until the truth could no longer be denied.

I stayed. I stayed because I thought that was love. I stayed because I clung to the small glimpses of what I wished love could be. And in the end, I lost myself entirely.

Rebuilding

But here’s what I’ve learned: pain doesn’t erase you. It teaches you. It breaks you open to rebuild, if you let it. And I did. Slowly. Carefully. Fiercely.

I’m not the same girl I was before. I’ve grown, I’ve healed, I’ve learned to love myself in ways I always wanted someone else to. I still have flashbacks, moments that ache, silences that sting.

But now, when I look in the mirror, I see her again — the one who thought she was gone forever.

And I whisper to her:

"You made it out. You’re safe now. You’re still love"

Because I did love — fiercely, deeply, recklessly — and that means I’m capable of loving again. But this time, without losing myself in the process.

To the Woman Reading This

If you’re in that space — that suffocating place where love feels more like pain — I hope you know this: you’re not weak for staying, and you’re not broken for leaving. You were simply never taught the difference between being loved and being controlled.

You deserve a love that doesn’t ask you to shrink.

You deserve peace that doesn’t come and go with someone else’s moods.

You deserve to feel safe, not scared.

It takes strength to walk away, but even more strength to rebuild yourself after you do. And when you do — you’ll see her again. The woman you were before the hurt. She’s been waiting for you to come home.

A Note from Mommy in Bloom

I’m sharing this not to seek pity or answers, but because I know so many of us have walked through shadows in the name of love. This is my story — my lessons, my scars, my growth — written from my heart to yours.

If these words reach you, I want you to remember: you are seen. You are worthy. You are allowed to heal. And one day, just like me, you will find yourself again — whole, strong, and unapologetically you.

With love,
Mommy in Bloom