I hear people talk about love and loss like it’s a badge of honor. ‘Everything I’ve lost has claw marks on it,’ they say…proof they fought for it, bled for it, didn’t go down without a swing. But when I look back, I don’t see claw marks.
I see clean breaks.
Doors I didn’t run after.
Words I didn’t say.
And it makes me wonder—what’s wrong with me?
Why do I still feel like I have so much love to give…like I’d give anything to find the woman who becomes the future Mrs., the future mother of my kids…yet somehow, I never fought like hell to keep what I had?

Maybe that just means I haven’t met the one I was meant to fight for. But if I’m being honest, I know I’ve met women I should’ve fought for.
And I didn’t.
I let them go quietly.
So now, I live with this weird ache… not just for love, but for a version of myself that shows up and doesn’t run when it matters most.