Just Breathe Confessionals

The Love That Broke Me

• Just Breathe Confessionals • Season 1 • Episode 8

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Kind Note:
This episode includes reflections on emotional, mental, and sexual manipulation in a past relationship.
Please listen gently and only when you feel safe, grounded, and supported.
Your heart deserves care.

Episode Description:
In this episode, I return to a version of myself I haven’t spoken to in years — the girl who fell in love in high school before she understood what love was supposed to feel like. What began as attention and affection slowly turned into control, isolation, and the quiet erosion of my confidence and identity. I didn’t realize how deeply emotional and mental manipulation can take root until I was already inside of it, trying to hold onto something that was breaking me.

This is a story of staying too long and leaving slowly — of believing I could fix what was hurting me, of grieving the version of myself who didn’t know better yet, and of learning to recognize love that doesn’t require me to disappear to keep it.

It’s about the confusion of being seventeen, the fear of being alone, the guilt that keeps us quiet, and the soft relief that comes when we finally choose ourselves.

If you have ever stayed in a relationship you didn’t know how to leave, if you’ve ever lost yourself trying to be loved, if you’ve ever questioned your worth or your voice — you are not alone.
 

SPEAKER_00:

Before we begin, I just want to give you a small heads up. This episode is going to be a bit longer than usual. Some stories need time to breathe. This episode also includes reflections on emotional, mental, and sexual abuse in a past relationship of mine. If that feels heavy for you, please listen only if and when you feel safe and supported. When I first started thinking about this podcast, I knew there were things I needed to talk about. Not just to help someone else feel seen, but to finally let them go myself. I've never actually told this story in full before, and honestly, even this is just a small part of it. I promise I'm not about to keep you here for hours listening to my trauma. I'm closing this season with a three-part series I'm calling the Love Chapters. Because love, in all its forms, shapes us. It teaches, it hurts, it heals. I remember one day, out of nowhere, the actress Melissa Benoit, the one who played Supergirl, dropped a YouTube video sharing her story about surviving intimate partner violence. The way she talked about loving her partner so much and still hiding things because she felt like she had to. That struck something in me. It took me back to my own relationship in high school, the one that broke me before I even understood what healthy love was supposed to feel like. Before I could even learn what love should be, I had to live through the one that wasn't. I was fifteen when I met him, at church of all places. He was a year older, homeschooled, kind of quiet, skater boyish. We exchanged numbers, we started flirting, texting, and before long it turned into something more. Back then, church was my entire world. Youth group, Thursdays, Sundays, summer camps, pool parties. So dating him felt like the biggest deal. I felt chosen. I felt seen. And for a while, it was good. Until it wasn't. The shift was slow. It always is. I've learned that now. But back then, I couldn't have imagined how much that relationship would affect my life. It started with jealousy. Where I was, who I was with, how long I'd be gone. Then came the comments about my clothes, my body, who might see me in a swimsuit. Those comments stayed with me for years. They left an impression. I once bought a bra from Victoria's Secret and he was livid about it. Over time, the grip tightened, friends faded, the warnings came, and I just didn't listen. Not because I didn't believe them, but because I couldn't let myself believe I was in a relationship that was hurting me. There were small moments that should have been nothing, but they weren't. One spring break, I went to see the movie Springbreakers with some of my girlfriends, and I already knew he wasn't gonna like it. But I went anyways, because it was my life. And oh, did I forget to mention he told me which movies I was allowed to watch? Yeah, I don't know why that was a thing either. The movie had just started when I texted him what we had picked. My phone started blowing up, calls, text messages, my notifications lighting up the screen. I stepped outside, started crying while everyone else was inside watching the movie. I missed the first twenty minutes, trying to make sure he wasn't too mad at me, calling him back, getting my calls denied by him, thinking if I could just get a hold of him, explain why I did it. That's how much power I had given him. There were other moments too, small but sharp. If one of his guy friends said, Hey, nice tink top, it was somehow my fault. I was asking for attention. I was trying to get noticed. It didn't matter what I wore or how I acted, I was always to blame. And eventually, I started to believe him. One night he was asleep at my house and his phone kept buzzing. Something in me knew. So I looked. Photos, messages, flirting, sexting, a whole other relationship without me. I woke him up crying, shaking, screaming, and somehow through all the crying and yelling, he convinced me that his cheating was all my fault, that I had pushed him there, that I wasn't giving him what he needed in our relationship, and that's how manipulation works. It rewrites your reality. By senior year, I was drained, not just tired, but the kind of tired that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavy. I remember asking him once, are we together because we love each other or because we're just used to each other? He looked at me and said I don't know. And I felt that because I didn't know either. And we just stayed together. Not because it felt good, not because it was healthy, but because it was familiar. And sometimes the familiar feels easier than the truth. Even on my eighteenth birthday, the night of my high school graduation, he was upset that I wasn't giving him enough attention. I look back at the pictures from that day now, and I can see it so clearly. The smile that didn't quite reach my eyes, the way I was holding myself together, pretending everything was fine. College gave me a little air. Just a little. I was living with my sister then, trying to figure out adulthood, one grocery run at a time, bills, gas, classes, stretching every dollar. I thought maybe distance would help us. Maybe without seeing each other every day we'd have room to grow. But distance doesn't fix what's already hurting. It just gives you space to notice the hurt more clearly. He would take me out to eat, cover little things, show up in ways that look like support, and I appreciated it. I really did. But slowly there were expectations attached, not spoken out loud, but felt. Like I owed something back, like closeness was the repayment. I didn't have the words for it then. I just knew I didn't want to disappoint him. I didn't want to lose him. I was young and trying to be what love required. Now I can see it more clearly. There were pieces of myself I gave because I didn't feel like I had a choice, and that's not love. Love does not ask you to give your body to keep the peace. Love does not make affection a transaction. Love does not hold your softness as something owed. But I want to be very honest about something here, because healing doesn't come from hiding. Near the end of that relationship, I cheated. And the truth is, I knew what I was doing. I knew I was stepping outside of the relationship. But I also need to say this. I was 17 years old. I was young, and no one had ever taught me how to recognize abuse, how to leave it, or how to protect myself inside it. I didn't know what healthy love looked like. I didn't know how to have boundaries. I didn't know how to ask for help, or even that I was allowed to. By then I was worn down mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I didn't recognize myself anymore. So when someone came into my life and simply made me feel seen, even in the smallest way, I clung to that feeling. Not because it was love, because it felt like air. Not because I didn't care about him, and not because I wanted to cause pain, but because I didn't know how to leave, and didn't know how to say, this is hurting me, without fearing what would happen next. That doesn't make it right, and it doesn't erase the harm I caused. I take responsibility for my part in it. If he ever hears this, I am very sorry. No one deserves to be cheated on. But I can also see now I wasn't choosing him, and I wasn't choosing the person I cheated with. I was trying, in the only way I understood at the time, to choose myself, to feel wanted, to feel alive, to feel like I existed. It wasn't love, it wasn't escape, it was breath. It was the only door I could see. And now I know better. Now I leave when something is breaking me. Now I speak up. Now I choose myself on purpose. After that, something in me shifted. But I know some people might wonder why didn't I just leave then? Or why didn't I just admit what I had done? The truth is, I'd tried to leave before, and it never worked. Every time I tried to step away, I got pulled back in, by apologies, by guilt, by fear, by the version of him I kept hoping would come back. I was depleted, like I had been holding my breath for years without realizing it. And admitting the cheating, I was terrified. Afraid of what he would say, afraid of what he would do, afraid of being alone, afraid of losing someone I thought was my best friend, even if he wasn't good for me. It's confusing when you're seventeen. You think love means holding on, you think loyalty means losing yourself? You think leaving means failure. So I stayed. Not because I was happy, but because I didn't know how to leave. And in a way, my heart stepped out of that relationship long before I did. Which is why what came next didn't happen with a dramatic explosion. It simply happened, like the ending had been waiting for me to finally be ready. When our relationship finally came to an end, it wasn't loud, which honestly was surprising. So much of our relationship had been dramatic and emotional and overwhelming. But the end? It was just a phone call of all things. One morning before my first college class, the phone rang. He said can you just do it already? So I did. I ended it. And then came one last manipulation tactic, one last attempt to hold control. He said, I was gonna propose to you on Christmas. The thing is, I don't even like Christmas, and he knew that. So when he said that, I realized something. He wasn't trying to save us. He was just trying to see if he can make me stay one more time. But by then, I had started to find my voice in college. I had started to remember who I was before him. And in that moment, I finally saw it for what it was. I hung up the phone, and for the first time in years I felt air move through my chest like I could breathe again. That relationship took so much from me. My confidence, my friendships, my sense of self. I stayed because I thought I could fix it. Because I thought love was supposed to be hard. Because I didn't know any different. And sometimes I still feel sad that I went through all that so young. I was with him for almost four years, and when you're a teenager, that feels like forever. Everything feels permanent, everything feels defining. But here's the thing I've learned now. You leave when you're able to leave, not when people tell you to, not even when the red flags are obvious to everyone else. It takes time to recognize manipulation. It takes time to untangle someone else's voice from your own. And it takes strength to ask for help. Love should not feel like fear. Love should not feel like shrinking yourself. Love should not feel like constantly having to earn your place. I accepted the love he gave me because I thought that's what I deserved. And in that process, I lost pieces of myself I'm still learning how to return to. When I finally left, I could breathe again, but not everyone gets out. I grieve the younger version of me who didn't know. But I honor her too, because she survived long enough to become me. During my first year working at the high school, I saw a boy screaming at his girlfriend, the same way someone once screamed at me. He stormed off campus and she was left there crying. I went to her and said, I know you don't know me, and I don't know your whole story, but this is not how it's supposed to feel. Sadly, she stayed with him for months. The rest of the school year actually. It was hard to watch. But then I remembered how my friends must have felt watching me stay. Sometimes people have to learn at their own pace, just like I learned at my own pace. She just came back recently and said hi to me, and she told me she had left him, blocked him on everything, and left his ass. I was so proud of her, because so many don't get out. And the timing of it all, it felt like the universe nudging me. I had already been working on this episode, already sitting with some old memories, already thinking about the girl I used to be. So when she walked in, when she told me she had finally left him, it felt like a sign. Like the universe saying, Okay, I think it's time you talk about this. I think about that version of me sometimes. The one who stayed, the one who tried so hard to be enough. She didn't know it yet that love isn't supposed to feel like holding your breath. And I don't blame her anymore. I don't carry shame for her choices. I hold softness for her now because she was doing the best she could with the love she understood at the time. If you know someone like her, or if you were her, give her grace. Give yourself grace. In the next episode, I'm gonna talk about the partner who wasn't my forever, but who helped me rebuild, who taught me what safety felt like, and who showed me that love doesn't have to hurt. Thank you for listening. Thank you for holding space. Until next time, just breathe.