There’s a version of you that used to hope so freely. That used to believe things would work out. That people would stay. That love, once found, would be enough. That life would eventually be kind if you just kept giving it your all.
But over time, that version of you faded.
Not because you became bitter. But because things kept breaking.
People left without explanation. Dreams you worked so hard for crumbled in your hands. Promises were made and then quietly forgotten. You kept showing up, but the world didn’t always meet you with the same softness. And at some point, you stopped expecting it to.
This isn’t bitterness. This is grief.
Grief for the life you thought you’d have. For the people who didn’t love you the way you needed. For the parts of yourself you had to abandon just to survive. For the trust that was lost, the innocence that slowly disappeared, the spark that dimmed.
And grieving doesn’t make you weak. It means you’re human.
You’re not angry at the world for no reason—you’re just aching for what should have been. And as painful as it is, that ache is part of healing. It shows that something mattered. That you mattered.
You can honour the grief without letting it consume you. You can mourn what’s been lost and still choose to keep living. Not with the same innocence, maybe—but with a deeper, quieter strength.
That strength is your return. Your healing. Your softness, slowly coming back to life.