What happens if someone sticks around and gives you time to change.

Let me tell you something — no therapy behind closed doors heals you on its own. It’s a harsh truth. No tool, no technique — in some cases, not even yourself — will heal you as much as human connection. It is our communities, our friends, our families, and even strangers. And believe me, it isn’t linear. It is raw — opening every wound, every hurt. The reality is that all scars are connected in one way or another.

When I started my sessions, my therapist asked me one question. It wasn’t, “Tell me a little bit more about yourself,” or “What can I help you with?” She asked me:

“How do you feel about being a woman?”

I didn’t feel at all.

I have to admit that I spent a great deal of my life living, exploring, working, and trying to understand how to navigate a masculine world. The independence people see is a pure, raw by-product of grinding, sharpening my guns, and getting ready to protect myself — survival in its purest form.

Being gentle, understanding, caring, affectionate, calm — that was never natural to me. For a long time, I was stuck in a strange, exhausting in-between place, where my masculine energy would dominate, even though it hurt my feminine self deeply. It showed up in the tiniest things — small actions, the most hurtful words. Not toward others, but toward myself. And when you are so tired of carrying everything alone, those small moments start to mean something else.

It was a very close group of people who suggested it was time for me to get help. It wasn’t a choice for me; it was an ultimatum — you’re either in, or you’re on your way out. It was made exceptionally clear that I had reached a point in my life where I was wasting my potential, their time, and my gift to inspire others to reach their highest potential. If someone sticks around and gives you time to change — BROOOOOOO, it’s not love. It’s more than love.

Think. Decide. Or change.

They understood — as many of them had done the same thing themselves — that healing would take place outside the room. That it would happen in conversations, in tears, in presence. Hence the fact that they stayed. They held my head, wiped my tears, answered my calls, checked - in. Each and every one of them deeply believed that I would succeed.

However, there is a slight paradox in all of this — if you don’t believe in yourself, no one will.

To avoid the feeling of loss, it was me who walked away from some of them. But even those friends still believed, from far away. I have absolutely no clue what I would have done without each and every single one of you.

I didn’t believe — until I stopped.

Subconsciously or not, I have lived through every single word written here. But I didn’t realise that just walking away was not the only damage that was done. And I held it like a badge of honour.

Look at me. What a hero — I walked away.

But walking away, as freeing as it can be, chased me with a slap in the face. Not my face, but others’.

Most people who stay in the wrong situations aren’t weak. They’re not naïve. They’re not blind.

They know.

That’s the part nobody talks about.

They know something isn’t right. They feel it in the quiet — on Sunday evenings, on Monday mornings, in the middle of ordinary days when nothing dramatic is happening but something still feels off. They know something fundamental is missing, or broken, or has been for a long time. Hope slowly turns into a habit instead of a belief.

And still — they stay.

Not because they don’t know better. But because leaving requires something that knowing alone doesn’t give you.

It requires you to stop. To let the story end. To let the identity you built inside it dissolve. To walk into the version of your life that exists on the other side — and feel everything that version asks of you.

And that feeling is what people avoid.

Not the logistics. Not the judgment. Not even being alone.

It’s the admission — that this didn’t work. That the future you once imagined isn’t coming.

It’s the grief — not just of the person or the situation, but of who you thought you’d be inside it.

It’s the loneliness of standing without even the wrong structure to organise your life around.

It’s the identity shift — the terrifying question: who am I outside of this?

It’s the visible ending. The moment you have to say it out loud. The moment it becomes real.

And it’s the loss of hope — even false hope — because hope, even when it’s thin and fragile, keeps the door slightly open.

So they stay. Managing grief in small, survivable doses. Keeping the ending at arm’s length.

But staying too long does something quiet.

It teaches your nervous system that love feels strained. Conditional. Something you have to maintain, negotiate, and endure. And repetition makes that feel normal.

So when something steady arrives — calm, kind, uncomplicated — it can feel unfamiliar. Almost suspicious. Not enough friction to feel real.

And sometimes people walk away from the very thing they once prayed for — simply because it doesn’t hurt in the way they’ve learned love should.

As I had just climbed that hill, I received a video call from a couple of my friends.

“We just thought we’d show our faces and have a cup of tea with you! Surprise!”

The timing couldn’t have been better. It was the start of March, the sun was beaming, the moss was dry, and I could sit down without my bum getting wet.

For me, that was the moment true healing took place — as soon as I saw how tired one of my friends looked. I don’t think I had ever heard my heart beat so loudly. I saw exactly the same look on his face as I had once seen on myself. And I knew, in that moment, that my therapy sessions were over — because that was the moment I decided to leave. To leave the last of the baggage on that hill.

We all caught up and had a good laugh. Then, one by one, we said goodbye and hung up. I asked him to stay behind.

“Man, you know you don’t have to handle it alone. It’s okay. I’m here, buddy.”

He asked me to repeat what my last interaction with Phillipe was before he passed away. And just like many times before, I rolled my eyes and patiently repeated it — we discussed why that carrot had three legs instead of two, and I told him how much I appreciated and loved him, not only for the things he had done for me, but for the fact he is an amazing human being.

Then I said, “Man, I think that’s enough. You need to move on.”

And just like that, my own words echoed in my head — without him even saying a word. Just from his eyes, I realised that my friend had never told his partner, the love of his life, how much he loved him. And the next morning, it was too late.

You can be as spiritual as you want, but saying “I love you” to empty space and hoping he will hear — tell me, eh? One brick too many. An unspoken word that once carried the zest for life became an even bigger regret because it had felt forbidden before. Because it was a hurt from long ago. As if unity was a place where they were both destined to die.

Holy shit — the baggage he is carrying is heavy.

Is it worth it?

It’s funny that the same person once told me that by building walls, I wasn’t allowing the right people to show me how good life can get. And more than that, I wasn’t allowing myself to be the right person in other people’s lives.

These words were the catalyst for my change.

And did all of this happen in the therapy room?

No.

It happened on the most random day.

And just like that, I left that hill feeling different.

There were no fireworks. No dramatic revelation. Just a quiet lightness I hadn’t felt in years.

I felt forgiveness — not only for myself, but for every person who has ever done me wrong and vice versa. I understood that scars can heal and memories will fade. But more than that, I felt free. Free of anger. Free of guilt. Free of the pain I had been carrying as if it were proof of something.

I know I gave 101% of myself at any given time, even after everything that happened. I showed up fully. I loved fully. Every single time.

But that day I experienced something new.

This 201% feeling.

Imagine it.

Imagine the feeling when we fully open up — when we put the fear, the walls, the boundaries, all that shit away and say: faaaak, these people want this thing as badly as I do — let’s run on high forever.

And I realised something simple and undeniable:

I am a woman who loves too much.

And I like it.

And why not?

Because who else will?

Gratitude to the faraway stars and back to those who stuck with me.

What if it all works out?

Damn, it was such a beautiful day.

—

“Real Love Baby” — Father John Misty

“It Might Be Time” — Tame Impala