The Weight of staying Present

 

Dear Readers,

There’s a thin line between being understanding and overextending.

Sometimes you don’t notice when you’ve crossed it—only that you’ve started shrinking. Staying up late for someone who’s drifting off mid-sentence. Giving energy to conversations that don’t hold the same weight when the roles are reversed. It’s not always heartbreak. Sometimes it’s something quieter. A slow forgetting of yourself.

But here’s what becomes clear with time: love is a beautiful thing—but when it turns one-sided, it stops being connection and starts becoming a compromise of your peace.

We’re raised on love stories where women “hold it down". Where love looks like endurance. And before long, many of us are carrying the emotional weight of two people while convincing ourselves we’re just being patient.

But emotional labour isn’t just about kindness. It’s:

• Being the one who remembers and initiates.

• Keeping the connection alive through messages, check-ins, and thoughtful gestures.

• Softening your needs to make space for someone else’s inconsistencies.

Love doesn’t always break with a bang. Sometimes it fades with every unanswered call, every plan that falls through, every moment you feel unseen—and you stay anyway.

We’re told that strong women don’t walk away too easily. That loyalty means staying no matter what. That love is work, and if you hold on long enough, it’ll all fall into place.

But at what cost?

When did “strong” become a synonym for self-sacrificing? Why are we so hesitant to admit that even love—when it’s not mutual—can slowly wear us down?

Being strong doesn’t always mean enduring pain with grace. Sometimes it means choosing yourself, even when it breaks your heart a little.

Sometimes the situations we find ourselves in say less about the other person and more about what we’ve been taught to accept.

You start to see your own patterns:

• The way you overgive, just to feel secure.

• The way you go quiet to avoid conflict.

• The way you accept crumbs and call it "compromise".

Love should never require you to abandon yourself. When your voice no longer feels welcome, it stops being love and starts becoming performance.

Real love should feel like mutual effort.
Like, “I see you."
Like, “I want to be here too."
Like, “Your emotions are not a burden.”

The right kind of love doesn’t need convincing. It matches your energy. It leans in. It remembers. It’s not perfect—but it’s present.

They text back.
They follow through.
They show up—not in grand gestures, but in the small, steady ways that matter.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is stop chasing effort. Stop shrinking your needs. Stop romanticising the version of someone you wish they could become.

And start coming back home.

To your laughter.
To your voice.
To your peace.
To the version of you that doesn’t need to be smaller to feel loved.

Because the truth is: the right love won’t ask you to disappear. It won’t require performance. It’ll feel safe, and mutual, and light.

Until then?
Choose you.