Mila🌸

Maybe it was my fault maybe it lived in the things I lacked, the actions I didn’t take, the moments I hesitated instead of choosing courage and I can sit with that because I know I’m not perfect, I know I have flaws and places I’m still growing, but if there is one truth I will never deny, it’s that my love was real. Maybe to him it didn’t feel real, maybe he couldn’t fathom being loved like that by someone like me, maybe it scared him or felt unfamiliar or even shameful because it was something he had never experienced before, but I know what I felt, and even though it hurts, I will never regret it, because love real love is too beautiful to regret. It’s something sacred, something unique to the two people inside of it, a language only they understand, and I loved that man in a way that softened me. Watching him slowly pull away felt like grieving in slow motion; I kept trying to convince myself he was still into me, still choosing me, when deep down I could feel the distance growing, and there is nothing more painful than realizing you’re fighting for something that the other person has already let go of. What’s the point of being with someone who doesn’t see you the way you see them, who doesn’t feel the same depth, the same pull? It’s a lonely thing to love someone more than they love you. And now I’m left grieving someone who is still alive someone who knows intimate, sacred pieces of me and having to accept that they simply don’t want to be involved in my life anymore, even though that acceptance isn’t mutual. So I carry the ache and the love at the same time, knowing that even if it didn’t last, what I felt was real, and that is something no one can take away from me.

It’s been a while since I’ve written here, not because I’ve had nothing to say, but because I’ve been unsure of how to say it. I tend to turn my experiences into art, especially the difficult ones, because pain has a way of sharpening words and giving them depth but I don’t want to become someone who only writes from sadness, as if that’s all my life is. It isn’t. Life is still beautiful, still filled with softness, warmth, and quiet moments that remind me how good it can be. Lately, though, what’s been closest to the surface are my health struggles and my insecurities, the internal battles that don’t always look dramatic but feel heavy all the same. I use this space to be honest, not to romanticize suffering or pretend everything is perfect, but to let both light and shadow exist at the same time. Maybe that honesty resonates with someone who’s also trying to hold gratitude and exhaustion in the same hands. This isn’t me choosing negativity it’s me choosing truth, and trusting that even that can be beautiful.

It’s easy to be desired. But to be understood, embraced, and loved for every chaotic piece of who you are you are that’s something holy.

Maya Angelou once said, “Love liberates,” and for a long time, I didn’t fully understand what that meant. I used to believe that if I loved someone deeply if I poured my whole heart into them they should love me back just as fiercely. I couldn’t understand how they didn’t see it, how they didn’t feel what I felt. So I tried to hold on tighter, to make them stay, to control the shape of love so it would look like what I needed. But love isn’t something you can force or barter for. It isn’t a mirror of what you give. It’s a gift offered freely, without expectation. And real love, the kind that comes from the soul, doesn’t cling or confine. It releases. It trusts. It lets go. To truly love someone is to want their happiness, even if that joy isn’t found with you. It’s wanting them to experience love in all its beauty, even if that experience unfolds in someone else’s arms. That kind of love the kind that steps aside with grace and quiet pain is the most sacred of all. It is not rooted in possession, but in presence. And sometimes, presence means loving someone from a distance, carrying the ache of them in your heart, while standing at the edge of their happiness and being grateful that, even just for a moment, you got to love them at all.

There’s a quiet kind of power in observing. It isn’t passive it’s intimate. I notice the small things, the in betweens that others often miss. And when I do speak, it feels like releasing a soft truth into the world, hoping it lands where it’s meant to. Still, I often wonder how do others see me? What version of me lingers in their memory? What trace do I leave behind, if any? Do I seem warm? Distant? Strange? Gentle? Have I moved anyone the way they’ve moved me? Sometimes I think about the impact we have without knowing. The ways we echo in someone else’s life without ever realizing it.

My heart is wired to notice the little things, to read between the lines, to sense shifts in energy, tone, or silence. And when something hurts, I really feel it.

Comparison quietly corrodes the soul it convinces you that your worth is negotiable, measured against curated images and fleeting standards. I’ve found myself questioning my beauty, my body, my value, just by looking at someone else’s highlight reel someone with features deemed more desirable, or a body that seems effortlessly perfect. But the truth is, their shine doesn’t dim mine. We’re not in competition for beauty, for love, or for worth. There will be people who see me and think I’m beautiful in ways I may never see in myself and others who won’t, and that’s just life. What matters is shifting the focus back to my own growth, my own healing, and becoming the kind of woman I’m proud of not to gain approval, but because I deserve to feel whole in my own skin.

It’s strange how often people say, “She was so beautiful how could he cheat on her?” As if beauty is some kind of armor. As if being good, loving, loyal, or enough in all the ways that matter can actually stop someone from betraying you. But the more I think about it, the more I realize cheating is not about what’s lacking in the person being cheated on. It’s about what’s unhealed in the person who cheats. It’s not about looks. It’s not about perfection. It’s about hunger. A quiet, aching hunger to feel something wanted, desired, powerful, seen anything that fills the emptiness they refuse to face. Sometimes people cheat not because they’re in love with someone else… but because they’re running from themselves. They crave a distraction from the weight they carry inside. And instead of turning inward, instead of being brave enough to sit with what’s missing, they reach for someone new to forget. That’s what hurts the most, I think. Not just the betrayal… but realizing it had nothing to do with you. You could have poured your heart out. You could have held space for every broken piece of them. And they still would’ve chosen the easy way out. Cheating doesn’t mean you weren’t enough. It means they weren’t ready to meet you where love requires depth, presence, and honesty. So no, beauty doesn’t shield you. Kindness doesn’t protect you. Loyalty doesn’t guarantee anything in a world where people still bleed quietly from wounds they pretend not to have. And I guess I’m learning to let go of the need to make sense of it. Because someone’s betrayal is not my burden to carry. It’s a reflection of their heart, not mine.

With each passing year, I feel myself loosening the grip on old expectations the ones that told me I needed to be softer in some places, louder in others, smaller, shinier, easier to digest. I no longer wish to contort myself into someone I’m not just to be more liked, more chosen, more “enough.” There’s something quietly powerful in standing still in who I am flawed and radiant, tender and fierce, chaotic and calm. I feel things deeply. I speak with fire and with gentleness. I have days where I glow and days where I retreat. And all of it. all of it is mine. All of it is worthy of being seen and held. I’m beginning to understand that self-love isn’t loud it’s soft and steadfast. It’s sitting with myself when I feel unlovable and still choosing kindness. It’s releasing the need to be everything for everyone and instead becoming everything for me. Sometimes that means solitude. Sometimes it means not being invited or chosen. But what peace there is in knowing that those who truly see me the unfiltered, messy, brilliant me will stay. They won’t flinch at my tears, they won’t need me to dim. The world will try to make you forget your own beauty. It will ask you to compare your journey, your body, your voice, your life to someone else’s highlight reel. But I’m learning to stop chasing what was never meant for me, and instead, to cherish what is my becoming, my softness, my sacred rage, my grace. I am not behind. I am not lacking. I am exactly where I need to be unfolding, unbecoming, and returning home to myself.

It’s been a long time since I’ve shared anything I guess you could say published, though even that word feels too formal, too heavy, for what I do. The truth is, I love writing; it’s always been the way I try to make sense of myself, the world, my feelings. But lately, every time I sit down to pour something onto the page, I freeze. I second-guess every sentence, every word, and think, who am I to write anything worth reading? It’s like this quiet, gnawing imposter syndrome creeping in whispering that I’m not good enough, that my words won’t matter, that anything I post will come across as silly or shallow or not nearly as meaningful as I want it to be. And the cruelest part? This space, this blog, was meant to be my safe corner, a place where I could express myself without overthinking or censoring. But here I am, trapped in my own head, paralyzed by fear of judgment even when no one’s watching. It’s strange how we can love something so deeply, yet still convince ourselves we’re not worthy of doing it.

“Let’s just be friends.” a sentence so soft, yet it crashes like a wave, pulling everything under with it. It’s the quiet unraveling of something that once felt infinite, the careful erasure of a love that was never meant to be. Those words don’t just end a chapter; they rewrite the entire story, turning longing into distance, turning warmth into something careful and contained. It feels like being asked to stand at the edge of something beautiful and watch it slip through trembling fingers, like being given a place in their life but only in the quiet corners where love is not allowed to exist. And yet, the cruelest part isn’t the loss itself it’s the knowing. Knowing they will move on, knowing they will find comfort elsewhere while I am left carrying the weight of unspoken words and unfinished feelings. Knowing that they see my heart and understand its softness, yet still choose to keep me close not out of love, but out of convenience. Because they know I am too weak to walk away, too attached to stop orbiting them even when they have long stopped reaching for me. And so, I am left to make peace with a friendship built on the ruins of something more, smiling through the ache, pretending that “just friends” doesn’t feel like a slow, quiet kind of breaking.

There was something hollow in the pauses between our words, a silence that felt heavier than it should have. We spoke of our days his painted in vibrant hues of movement and laughter, woven with the warmth of company, the pulse of a city that never truly sleeps. Mine, in contrast, felt muted, spent beneath the weight of winter’s embrace, where the snow fell endlessly outside my window, beautiful yet unforgiving. Maybe I was overthinking, but I could feel the distance stretching between us, not just in miles, but in the way we carried the echoes of our disagreements. I held onto things longer, let them settle into my bones, while he had long learned how to move through life unburdened, untouched. He had seen and survived so much, had grown accustomed to goodbyes, to letting people slip away. Meanwhile, I was still here, lingering in the quiet, absorbing it all, feeling it too deeply perhaps more than I should.