There was a time in my life when I made decisions that I now look back on with discomfort and regret.
They weren’t reckless in the obvious sense, but they were rooted in emotion rather than judgment. I allowed myself to become involved with someone who was already bound to another life, another promise. At the time, I told myself stories to make it feel acceptable—that the situation was complicated, that feelings justified the confusion, that love could exist without clear lines. I believed I was being brave by “following my heart,” when in truth, I was avoiding responsibility.
When the reality of that situation finally surfaced, it didn’t come quietly. It arrived through painful phone calls, strained conversations, and moments where the damage could no longer be denied. Someone else’s life was unraveling, and I was standing far too close to the center of it. Instead of responding with empathy, I protected myself. I became defensive. I minimized the pain I had helped cause because acknowledging it would have meant facing who I was at that moment. Only much later did I understand that this wasn’t strength—it was fear, disguised as confidence, driven by deep insecurity.
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