My addiction to the spark kept me from rewriting my story and reclaiming my power

There’s a story I’ve carried — one that’s been living in the cracks within my heart. I’m only now beginning to understand how much it has shaped me, and I’m finally ready to release its grip.

It started when I was just graduating from high school. We met, and the pull was instant. Magnetic. Otherworldly. I can’t describe it any other way. It was like meeting someone I’d always known — this inexplicable force between us.

Whenever we were together, it was like a dome came over us and no one else existed. Even when surrounded by people, it felt like we were in a world of our own. I’d never felt anything like it before, and I haven’t since. And though I’ll never know what it meant to him, I know what it did to me.

I never truly expressed my feelings to him — I could never find the words. And he hasn’t either. We never defined anything. We weren’t a “thing,” and that, more than anything, broke me again and again.

We’d see each other, and it would feel like the universe had paused for us. And then I’d snap — fed up with the fact that he wouldn’t commit. That was the pattern. He wouldn’t say how he felt. I wouldn’t ask again. And then I’d walk away.

The first time I left, it felt like a teenage girl’s reaction —

If he’s not going to choose me, I’m out.

He’d apparently gone through some rough stuff — a breakup that disturbed him. He was honest in a distant way. Not cruel, just… unavailable.

This made it hard for me to hate him.

The second time, it was the same story. The same connection. The same silence. Again, I had to walk away.

The third time was the last time. But before that final break, there were two moments that still echo in me.

The first was when we crossed paths after years apart. I was married by then, my son just a baby. And when I told him, he had tears in his eyes.

He was disappointed and asked me why —

Why had I gotten married, had a baby?

That moment confused me — how could someone express such emotions if they didn’t feel anything? Words are important to me. Still, he didn’t explain. He only tried to kiss me, but I was quick to turn my head.

After my divorce, we started seeing each other again — casually. And one night, in that soft in-between space, he looked at me and said, “You’re almost perfect.”

Almost.

It crushed me. Silently, of course. I knew how to keep my face nonchalant and my heart hidden. But that one word — almost — broke me.

It told me everything I needed to know, and nothing I wanted to hear.

The final time I walked away was after he called me in a drunken haze in the middle of the night. Said he couldn’t get me out of his mind. But even then, after all those years, he still couldn’t say what he felt. No clarity. No truth. Just confusion.

So I ended it. Again. I sent him a message the next morning saying not to call me like that again — and that was it. I never heard from him after that. I moved to another state, and then another country. And in all the years since — nothing.

But still, for so long, I kept this story in my heart and couldn’t let go.

The memory of him haunted my dreams. Not for who he was, but for the version of us I had created in my mind. He remains the best sensory experience I’ve ever had. Holding his hand, touching his skin, kissing his lips — it was magnetic.

And yet, he never rose to the occasion. He never showed up. He never chose me.

Since then, I’ve had other loves. Real ones. One in particular, where I actually got to know the person’s soul — and loved them deeply, unconditionally.

It wasn’t the same magnetic pull, but it was magic all its own.

The first time we met, I saw a sparkle in his eyes and a twinkle in his smile. We had something real. But that love ended too — he was carrying deep, painful childhood trauma he couldn’t face. That trauma seeped into our relationship and eventually broke us.

But that’s love — messy and imperfect.

The otherworldly magnetic connection? It wasn’t love. It was a deep ache for something unrealized. It was built on a fantasy.

I often wonder why I held this silently for so many years, and although I was in denial of it, I let it make me feel less than.

For years, I kept chasing that feeling — not him, but trying to recreate that same high with other people. Hoping to feel what I once felt, and then I’d compare: But with him, it felt different — stronger, deeper. So I told myself it must’ve been him that made me feel that way.

But the truth is, I was the one creating the experience. The magic didn’t come from him — it came from within me. It was my openness, my presence, my capacity to feel.

When we give someone else credit for our joy, we give away our power. And when we keep chasing something outside of ourselves to feel whole again, it chips away at the soul.

Owning this experience means giving myself credit for what I learned.

I’ve become both the author and the editor of my story.

This journey taught me to:

• Recognize that the magic I was chasing never came from a person, place, or moment — it was always within me.
• Discern the difference between a real connection and one shaped by longing. The mind can be convincing, but people reveal the truth through their actions.
• Notice when someone is truly showing up — not just in energy or words, but in their clarity, consistency, and commitment.
• Choose peace over the pain of trying to be chosen. Walk away when someone can’t meet my needs.
• Know the difference between a fleeting thrill and a grounded, meaningful connection.
• Find the courage to ask for clarity, even when it feels uncomfortable.
• Catch my mind when it drifts into old memories or starts comparing.
• Remember that chemistry doesn’t equal compatibility.
• Understand that craving love from someone who won’t choose me only chips away at my spirit.
• Accept that holding on to something unclear or unfinished can quietly become toxic — especially when I let it shape my sense of worth.
• Grieve someone, even if they were never truly mine.

And most importantly, you can get so caught up in the longing, in the illusion, in the what if — that you miss the beauty of your real life.

The blessings right in front of you.

The people who love you.

The family you belong to.

The peace waiting for you in the present moment.

I look back and realize how many quiet joys I overlooked while I was trapped in that story. It consumed more of me than it ever deserved to.

The hardest part wasn’t walking away. It was letting go of the idea of him. Of us. Of the story I told myself for decades.

I’m finally learning to release the belief that this experience meant I wasn’t enough. That his inability to show up was a reflection of me.

It wasn’t.

Letting go isn’t erasing the past — it’s rewriting the story.

It’s choosing to tell a new story about what it meant and who you’ve become because of it.

When nostalgia shows up, I remind myself I don’t have to return to what hurt just because it once felt good. Each time I choose what’s real over what I wish it was, I come back home to myself.

I may never recreate that otherworldly high — and I don’t need to. What I will gain instead is something steadier: a clear-eyed partnership with someone who speaks their truth as fiercely as I hold mine.

And if that never comes, I’ll still be whole.

Because loving myself fully, being myself completely, and choosing not to settle for anything less than mutual, grounded love — is more than enough.

I am enough. My peace, my presence, my path — it’s all worth protecting.

May you, too, learn to write — and rewrite — the stories living in your heart, knowing that the most important one is the one you tell yourself.