To the Woman Who Left the Wrong Relationship and Misses It Anyway

Dearest tender hearted reader,

I know you're tired of hearing, “You did the right thing.”

Because while it's true, undeniably, unshakably true, it doesn't numb the sting of loss. Not every loss is tragic, but every ending carries weight. Even when you walk away from the wrong thing, you're still walking away from something that once felt familiar, comforting, intoxicating in its own way.

You left. And some nights, you miss it.

Not because you made the wrong decision, but because you’re human, and humans remember softness, even when it was wrapped in thorns.

This is the kind of grief no one warns you about. The quiet, inconvenient kind that comes after you’ve done the mature, self-respecting thing.

We glorify detachment these days: Block him. Move on. He was toxic. And yes, sometimes he was. But what people forget is that in between the red flags were very real moments of connection. Of feeling chosen. Of feeling seen. You loved who you were when you were loved, even if it was a version of you dimmed to make the connection last.

But loving someone from a wounded place doesn’t mean you were weak. It means you were available. Open. Sincere. You gave your heart. You hoped. That’s not foolish, that’s feminine strength.

I remember one man. Good man, on paper. Soft smile. Thoughtful gestures. Brought me tea when I was unwell and remembered how I took it, decaf, honey, no fuss. He felt like the antidote to everything chaotic I’d endured before.

But in the stillness, I saw the truth: I was shrinking. My voice dimmed to keep his ego intact. My brilliance felt “too much.” He once said I used “unnecessary big words,” and I smiled, knowing I’d never water myself down for peace again.

So I left. With kindness. With clarity. And yes, I missed him. Not for who he was, but for what he symbolised: a man who didn’t hurt me, even if he never truly saw me.

And then there was the other one. The whirlwind. The poem-writing, playlist-making, pet-name-pouring man who loved in grand, dramatic gestures, so long as I didn’t challenge him. My instincts dulled under the weight of his flattery. My worth fluctuated based on his moods.

He gave me passion, but it cost me peace. He gave me attention, but it silenced my intuition.

That’s not love. That’s performance. And when I stepped back, I realised I wasn’t being loved, I was being managed.

I missed him too. But I was missing what I wanted him to be, not who he truly was.

So let me say this, woman to woman, with no sugar-coating and no fluff:

You’re allowed to miss it. But don’t mistake nostalgia for a reason to return.

You’re allowed to mourn the man who brought you flowers, even if he wilted your spirit.

You’re allowed to miss the laughter, the inside jokes, the scent on your pillow, but do not forget the version of you who cried quietly, who over-explained, who waited to be chosen fully.

Because the truth is this:

Just because something felt good doesn’t mean it was good for you.

Just because he didn’t hurt you doesn’t mean he helped you grow.

And just because he loved parts of you doesn’t mean he knew how to honour the whole.

You are not hard to love.

You are not “too much.”

You are not meant to settle for lukewarm, low-effort, almost.

Hold out. Not with desperation, but with confidence. With elegance. With standards that don’t tremble in the face of loneliness.

Because love, real love, won’t ask you to quiet your brilliance, question your worth, or beg to be understood.

The man meant for you won’t just love you when it’s easy. He’ll stay when it’s quiet. Choose you without condition. Cherish your mind, your heart, your complexity.

And you? You’ll feel safe without having to earn it.

So mourn, if you must. Let the memories come. Smile at the good. Honour the lessons. But don’t idolise the almost. Don’t glorify the “at least he didn’t…” men.

You chose yourself. That was grown-woman work. Divine work.

And someday, when the man who sees you walks in, your fire, your softness, your sacred standards, you’ll realise you never really lost. You just made space.

Until then, walk with your head high.

You’re not waiting. You’re preparing.

And preparation is holy.

With ink-stained fingers and a heart half-stitched,

Calliope Orford