I met the person who would completely change my life when I was just 25 years old. At that time, I wasn’t living my best life. I had endured painful situations, unhealthy relationships, and the loss of people I loved deeply. I wasn’t the best version of myself, and it’s safe to say I was lost searching for something, or someone, to make me feel whole. I believed he was that person. The way he looked at me with his ice-blue eyes sent my heart places I didn’t even know existed. He was caring, genuine, and accepted me exactly as I was. No one had ever cared for me the way he did. Every moment around him was filled with uncontrollable butterflies. I didn’t accept his love right away, but he fought for it, and that meant everything to me. When I finally let him love me, I loved him just as fiercely. There was no denying my infatuation.
Things moved fast. After being friends for only a few weeks, we became a couple. He met my family almost immediately, and I truly believed I had found my forever person. I wasn’t perfect, but he made me feel like I was. Within months, he moved into my home, and I loved every second of it. He adored my dog as much as I did, which only deepened my attachment. I did everything for him cooking, cleaning, supporting him financially, and helping him find job after job, even when he lost them without explanation. I never questioned him. I believed everything he told me. The red flags others might have seen never looked red to me; they were just flaws I was willing to accept for the love he gave me. He made me feel whole, young, and alive in a way I hadn’t felt before.
The next part of my story is something I didn’t fully understand until the relationship ended. I was so wrapped up in the idea of love that I couldn’t see what was happening to me. I’ve always been compassionate toward my family, my friends, and in my career. When I love, I love deeply. He knew this. Over time, my compassion became something he used to slowly change me. I quit my government job because he didn’t like it. I stopped doing schoolwork around him because he said I wasn’t paying enough attention to him. I drifted away from lifelong friends, deleted my social media, and gave him everything I had. He never even made his own plate of food. I loved him, and he became my addiction. I didn’t realize I was losing myself because I was too focused on being wanted.
Despite everything, I was willing to risk my identity just to stay with him. From the outside, we looked perfect. Inside, there were problems, but I convinced myself they were normal—things every couple goes through. I knew I wasn’t perfect, and I’m sure there were things I could have done differently. Still, I believed we were perfect for each other.
Before him, I never wanted marriage or children. I had spent my life believing I wasn’t worthy of being a wife or a mother. I had been told that more than once. He changed that. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to have his babies. He told me he wanted the same things, and he told my family too. I was all in. I couldn’t imagine life without him. Once again, he was my addiction.
On September 1, 2017, we found out I was pregnant. It was the happiest day of my life—and the beginning of the hardest journey I would ever face. Our relationship quickly began to fall apart, but I ignored every warning sign. I believed that having a baby together would fix everything. I never imagined he would leave me to face motherhood alone.
By October 2017, he began disappearing for days at a time. He stopped answering his phone and showed no concern for my pregnancy. I convinced myself he was just scared and would come back to normal. Then came the day that shattered everything. I was cooking dinner and doing laundry, excited because he had agreed to come home. While emptying his pockets, I found a small glass container. I knew immediately what it was. I screamed “No” and sank to the laundry room floor in silent tears. He was a recovering addict—or so I believed. He had promised me he would never go back to that life. I believed him completely.
I suggested couples counseling. From the few sessions he attended, he somehow convinced the counselor it was best that he only come home a few nights a week. I accepted it, believing it was all I deserved.
What should have been the happiest months of my life became the darkest. I found more drug paraphernalia. He was never sober and rarely around. I barely slept, spent nights crying on the porch, and wrote apology letters for things I didn’t understand. When he did answer the phone, he blamed me for his drug use and told me the baby wasn’t his. He called me horrible names and said he didn’t love me anymore. Still, I tried to fix everything.
When he did come home, he was cruel. I begged him on my knees to love me and our baby. He laughed. I was ashamed, broken, and pregnant. I covered for him, lied to my family, and protected his image while I was falling apart. Eventually, I told the truth to a few people, and they became my lifeline.
In March 2018, two months before my due date, I hit rock bottom. I sat in my car outside the hospital after he walked out of a maternity tour. I cried for hours, apologizing to my unborn daughter, promising her I would fix her dad. I felt completely disconnected from myself and overwhelmed with shame.
My baby was small, and doctors monitored her closely. I went through everything alone—appointments, tests, even an MRI—while he blamed me for the stress. Eventually, I told my dad and stepmom everything. I found support in my family, friends, faith, and meditation. Slowly, I began to feel less alone.
On May 11, 2018, at 11:45 a.m., my daughter Johanna was born. The moment I looked into her eyes, I felt a love unlike anything I had ever known. Thirty minutes later, he left. He held her for three minutes and walked out. That night, I finally felt empowered. I chose myself and my daughter.
The months that followed were difficult, but clearer. He remained distant, uninterested, and unreliable. My heart no longer broke just for me—it broke for my daughter. Over time, the less he was around, the stronger I became.
When Johanna was three months old, I returned to church. I rebuilt myself through faith, support, and love. Today, she is almost two years old. I write her letters explaining that none of this is her fault and that she was born from love.
I’ve learned that love and completeness cannot be found in another person. They must be found within yourself. I forgive him. I forgive myself. Today, I work full-time, raise my daughter, and take life one day at a time. And if you’re reading this and feel broken, empty, or not strong enough—please know this: you are stronger than you think, and you are worthy of love.
