The Long Goodbye: Healing After a 23-Year Attachment

In the shadows of doubt, my heart does dwell

A feeling lingers, an unspeakable spell

I sense you keep me in the background, it seems

And my thoughts wander through a maze of dreams

Deep within, I believe you know

The emotions that within me grow

Yet, I yearn to be proven wrong

To hear your voice, a melodious song

Silent answers leave my heart in dismay

While weather talk fills the hours of the day

And in these moments, doubts arise

That someone else has captured your eyes

But here I stand, against the tides

With courage and hope, my heart abides

For I am not one to shy away

To boldly seek love, come what may

Perhaps I'm crazy, to envision a tale

Of a love story that will never fail

But in this heart, a flicker remains

A belief that beauty can still reign

Though doubts may linger, and fears persist

Love's journey weaves its intricate twist

For in the depths of vulnerability

We uncover the truth of our unity

So, let me cast away these shadows of doubt

And together, let's embark on a different route

For who's to say what fate may bring

A love story with a beautiful ending

In a recent post, I explored the reasons behind a deep, decades-long emotional bond I had with someone from my past—an ex I held onto, emotionally, for nearly 23 years. The short version? He offered me something no one else had at the time: safety, solace, and what felt like genuine love. When you grow up not knowing what love without conditions feels like, that kind of connection can leave an imprint that lingers long after the relationship ends.

Processing all of this hasn’t been easy. Untangling trauma from tenderness never is. But meeting up with him—after more than two decades of silence—was something I didn’t realize I needed until I did it. It brought up so many emotions: confusion, pain, nostalgia… but also a strange kind of peace.

Recently, I came across a poem I wrote on May 18, 2024, during one of the more emotionally chaotic points in that process. As I reread it now, I find myself smiling. Not because it wasn’t painful—God, it was—but because I remember that version of me. I remember how much she was hurting, how lost she felt in that sea of emotions. And I smile because I’ve come far enough to recognize the hurt rather than become it.

Yes, there are still some lingering feelings. But now I understand where they come from—and more importantly, what they were trying to protect. I’m not “over it,” in the tidy, linear sense we often crave. Healing rarely looks like that. It’s messy. Nonlinear. And honestly, kind of ugly at times.

But I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I’m still doing the work. I’m still learning to love without losing myself. I’m still rewriting what safety and love look like in my life.

And that poem? It’s proof that healing doesn’t always feel good in the moment—but sometimes, looking back, you can smile at the storm you survived.