Peace Over Potential

There’s a peculiar kind of emotional limbo you find yourself in when the idea of reaching out to an ex crosses your mind, not because something was toxic or bitter, but simply because a small, wistful part of you wonders: What if?

Recently, I was standing right on that ledge. No drama, no anger, just a quiet curiosity about a past connection that, in a parallel universe, might have been the “forever” kind of thing. It felt strange, almost ironic, because deep down I believe God had a plan for me that didn’t include reopening that chapter. Still, the temptation was there, nudging me gently but persistently.

And then, in the midst of this emotional tug-of-war, I caught myself thinking something quite simple yet profound: I don’t want to trade peace for potential.

Now, let me be clear, this isn’t me preaching from some mountain of spiritual superiority. Far from it. This is me, a 20-something woman who has stumbled, fallen, cried over late-night texts, and laughed at herself for texting back too soon. It’s the messy reality of growing up and learning that not every “maybe” is worth your “yes.”

The peace I’m talking about is not the kind you get from avoiding conflict or pretending everything is fine. It’s the hard-earned kind that seeps in after years of facing your own demons, setting boundaries that no one else can cross, and recognising your own worth. It’s waking up without that pit of anxiety in your stomach, sleeping without replaying conversations that didn’t go well, and living without the emotional rollercoaster that certain relationships inevitably bring.

When you’ve been through enough to know that peace isn’t guaranteed, it becomes a sacred currency. And trust me, it’s far more valuable than the vague promise of potential. Potential is a bit like a shiny gift box with no label, you hope what’s inside is good, but you don’t know until you open it. And sometimes, that gamble isn’t worth the cost.

This is where self-respect comes in. Choosing peace over potential isn’t about settling or closing yourself off from love; it’s about holding yourself to a higher standard. It’s knowing your value and refusing to gamble with your emotional well-being on uncertain returns. It’s saying, “I am not a project to be fixed, a maybe to be figured out, or a convenience to be revisited when it suits you.”

There’s something incredibly empowering about that mindset. It transforms you from someone chasing affection to someone commanding it with quiet confidence. You start to understand that the right people will enter your life without you having to chase, convince, or settle. And that is freedom.

Of course, this mindset doesn’t erase the feelings that come with letting go. There’s sadness, nostalgia, and even grief for what might have been. You’ll catch yourself wondering if you made the right choice, or if you’re just scared of trying again. You might scroll through old photos and cringe at your past naivety (or at least, I did). But these feelings don’t mean you were wrong, they mean you’re human.

And here’s the humour in it all: if you find yourself tempted to reach out, maybe wait until you’re fully dressed and have eaten something. There’s nothing quite like sending a heartfelt message at 2 a.m. that makes perfect sense in your half-asleep state but will make you cringe later. (Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.)

So, what did I ultimately decide? I chose to honour the peace I’ve built with myself, no matter how tempting the “what if” was. I chose to sit with the discomfort of uncertainty rather than chase a future that might disrupt the calm I now cherish. Because peace, real peace, isn’t the absence of potential; it’s the presence of clarity, self-respect, and trust in life’s timing.

If you’re standing at a similar crossroads, I urge you to ask yourself this: Are you chasing peace, or are you chasing possibility? Because in the grand scheme of your life, peace is the one thing worth fiercely protecting.

And if you do decide to pick up the phone, just promise me you’ll wait until after breakfast. Because existential crises taste better with a cup of tea in hand.