life as poems 'n letters

There’s something about the way in which we go back to the people who have caused us pain. We assure ourselves it’s because of love, because of history, because of how they used to make us feel. We reassure ourselves that the sight of them reminds us we can still feel things so deeply. What if it isn’t the love we go back for?

What if it’s the wound?

Pain, in its own perverse manner, can be familiar. Even though it’s painful, it’s something we know, something we’ve grown accustomed to living with. And because it’s familiar, we get it mixed up with security. We misinterpret the sameness of suffering as something steady, even safe.

It’s like confusing a flickering street lamp with the sun. It provides only enough light to leave us standing in the dark, leading us to believe that what we have is sufficient, that heat isn’t designed to last.

There’s an odd solace in what we know, even when it kills us. A hurt borne too long begins to become a part of us—so much so that without it, we’re not sure who we are. And when somebody reminds us of that hurt, when their loss hurts in a way that’s almost too much to bear, we confuse that hollowness with love.

But is it love? Or is it merely the routine of grasping for what is known?

Letting go isn’t as easy as walking away. It’s not merely cutting ties or making vows to ourselves. It’s about unlearning the desire for what is toxic. It’s about shattering the delusion that pain is evidence of love, that yearning is evidence we must remain.

Somewhere out there, beyond what we know, there is something else. Something gentler, something more loving, something that doesn’t arrive wrapped in hurt. And perhaps we can’t see it yet because we’ve never had it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It just means we have to be willing to let go of what we’ve known long enough to find it.

Freedom isn’t achieved overnight. It occurs in moments—tiny, silent choices to do something else. To choose ourselves.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that’s the actual way forward.