Looking in the RearView

     

 

 

“Objects are Closer Than They Appear”

They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, but the truth is, it’s more like a cracked mirror — every glance backward distorts the image just enough to make you question what you saw in the first place.

I spent years loving someone who taught me that pain could wear perfume and smile in public. She didn’t raise her voice often, but when she did, it left bruises in places no one could see. I lost count of the apologies I whispered to myself, trying to convince my heart it was just a rough patch. That if I worked harder, loved louder, or held on tighter, maybe she'd come back to the version of her I first fell in love with — the version that might never have really existed.

Still, I never stopped showing up for her. For the version of us, I kept alive like a candle in a hurricane.

Now, she’s in my rear-view. And some days, I still glance back, out of habit. Out of hurt. Out of hope. But healing, I’ve learned, isn’t about forgetting — it’s about learning to look back without wanting to turn around.

I can still remember vividly how it ended. It started with her tone.

Sharp. Dismissive. The kind of tone that tells you you’re stupid without using the word. I was just asking if she’d seen the envelope with the rent money. That was it.

“Why do you always assume I touched your shit?” she snapped, not looking up from her phone.

My stomach tightened.

“I didn’t assume,” I said, gently. “I just asked.”

She rolled her eyes like it was the dumbest thing I’d ever said. Like I was a child needing to be corrected.

“Maybe if you weren’t so damn careless all the time, you’d know where your own things are.”

I stood there, silent. I’d heard worse. I’d been called worse. But something about the casual cruelty in her voice made my throat burn.

She walked past me, brushing against my shoulder like I wasn’t even there. Her perfume lingered in the air — sweet, intoxicating, the scent I once associated with home. Now it smelled like manipulation.

I turned to face her. “Why do you talk to me like that?”

She stopped. Slowly, dramatically. “Like what?”

“Like you hate me,” I said, quieter now. “Like you resent me for still trying.”

She smirked — not out of amusement, but out of power. “Because you’re exhausting. You always need validation. You always want to ‘talk about feelings.’ It’s pathetic.”

My heart sank, but I kept my voice steady. “I just want us to be kind to each other. That’s not pathetic.”

Then she got louder. “Don’t turn this around on me. You’re always playing the victim. Maybe if you weren’t so damn sensitive, we wouldn’t be here.”

I flinched at her volume. Not because I was afraid she’d hit me — but because she already was. With every word. Every cutting phrase. And she knew it.

And then she said it.

“You’re lucky I haven’t left already. No one else would put up with you.”

That was the moment something in me cracked.

I’d spent years trying to be the version of myself she would love. I bent. I shrank. I sacrificed my own voice just to avoid hearing hers raised. But that line? That line gutted me.

Because deep down, some part of me believed it.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t slam doors. I just walked into the bedroom, closed the door behind me, and sat on the edge of the bed like a man grieving someone who was still alive.

She didn’t come after me. Not to apologize. Not to explain.

And that night — I slept facing the wall. Quiet. Broken. And finally beginning to understand:
Love shouldn’t cost you yourself.

 

“The Mirror Hurts Too”

They don’t tell you that healing comes with shame.

Not just for what was done to you — but for what you did in return. For the moments you broke character. For the promises you made and didn’t keep. For the days you became the very thing you swore you’d never be.

I used to think she was the only villain in our story. But time softens the blame, and clarity sharpens the mirror.

I hurt her, too.

Not in the ways she hurt me — mine wasn’t calculated or cruel. But pain doesn’t need a plan to do damage. Sometimes, all it takes is your silence when you should’ve spoken. Or your shouting when you should’ve walked away.

I remember the night she cried and said she didn’t feel seen. I brushed it off. Told her she was being dramatic. She wasn’t. She was drowning. And I was too busy keeping my head above water to realize we were both sinking.

There were promises I made just to end the fight — not to honor them. “I’ll change.” “I’ll be better.” “I’ll listen.” They were bandages on a leak I refused to fix at the foundation. And the more I said them, the less they meant. To her. To me.

I wasn't always patient. I wasn't always kind. I became reactive, bitter, guarded. I shut down when she needed me open. I got quiet when she needed answers. And some days, I stayed not because I believed in us — but because I was afraid of starting over.

And that’s not love. That’s fear with a ring on its finger.

The truth? We were both damaged. Both desperate. Both afraid of being alone more than we were willing to be honest.

I don’t excuse what she did. I don’t forget the manipulation, the gas-lighting, the betrayals. But I also won’t pretend I was innocent just because I was hurt.

I contributed to the slow erosion. The missed chances. The same arguments on repeat. I stayed too long, and in doing so, I helped build a home made of triggers, not trust.

Some days I miss her. Some days I miss who I was when I believed we could make it.

But most days?

Most days I just pray that the next time I love — I do it from a place of healing, not survival.

 

A Heart Like David’s”

The church was nearly at its capacity, but I was in my own world.

Just me and the silence, broken only by the faint hum of the lights above the altar and the soft creak of the pew before me. I sat in the third row upstairs— not out of tradition, but because I couldn’t bring myself to go further. Not yet.

My Bible rested on my lap, open to Psalm 51.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”

I read it again. Slowly this time. Letting the words sink into the bruised corners of my soul.

I used to wonder how David — a man who failed so epically, who betrayed, who lied, who even took a life — could still be called a man after God’s own heart.

But now, I understood.

It wasn’t about perfection. It was about pursuit. David didn’t run from his brokenness — he brought it to God, raw and honest. He owned his failures. And still, he returned. Again and again.

Just like this.

I closed my eyes and exhaled.

“I’ve blamed her for a long time,” I whispered into the packed sanctuary. “And maybe some of that blame was justified. But God… I know I failed too. I didn’t protect her heart like I should’ve. I let my wounds become weapons. I became hard where I should’ve been tender. Silent when I should’ve prayed.”

My voice trembled. “I wasn’t the man I was meant to be. And I can’t fix the past, but I don’t want to live chained to it anymore.”

The tears came, slow and cleansing. Not dramatic — just steady. Like grace.

“I forgive her,” I said finally. “And I forgive me, too.”

That was the hardest part.

I sat there a while longer, letting it wash over me. The weight of guilt and shame didn’t disappear all at once, but it loosened. The grip wasn’t as tight anymore.

I wasn’t perfect. But for the first time in a long time, I was honest. That was something.

Before I left, I scribbled in the back of my journal:

“Becoming a man after God’s heart doesn’t mean you won’t fall.
It means you fall toward Him.”

And with that, I stood. No fanfare. No divine chorus.

Just a man with a limp and a heart finally learning how to beat freely again.

The Small Things Now”

It started with the mornings.

No more waking up to chaos. No walking on emotional eggshells or bracing for the next blow, visible or not. Just sunlight through half-open blinds, a cup of coffee I made for no one but himself, and the living room door opened to a message— a quiet place where healing had room to breathe.

I didn’t rush anymore. I prayed first. Not just for strength, but for patience. For wisdom. For softness.

The version of myself from a few years ago wouldn’t recognize this one. This man who paused before reacting. Who no longer needed to be right in arguments, but chose to walk away from them. Who didn’t see forgiveness as weakness, but as freedom.

I still had my moments — shadows that rose without warning, memories that crept into my chest and made it hard to breathe. But now, I faced them instead of feeding them. I wrote them down. Brought them to God. Let them pass.

One afternoon at a local coffee shop, a barista accidentally spilled an entire cup down my shirt.

The old me would’ve snapped— not because of the coffee, but because life had already made me feel invisible. Disrespected. Small.

But now?

It’s just a shirt,” I said, smiling. “I’ve lost worse and still survived.”

The barista apologized three times, but I waved her off gently. It was nothing. It was a moment. It was a choice. And I chose grace.

That night, I met up with a friend I hadn’t seen in months. We talked for hours — mostly about life, about God, about scars. At one point, the friend leaned in, voice low.

“You’re different, man. Quieter. But not like… defeated. More grounded. Lighter. What changed?”

I thought for a second, then replied, “I stopped trying to fix everything. I stopped carrying pain like it was proof I loved her. I let it go. And I gave it to God.”

The friend nodded slowly. “You still believe in love?”

I smiled. Not bitter. Not naive. Just real.

“Yeah,” I said. “But I don’t worship the idea of it anymore. I want something rooted in truth this time — not trauma.”

Healing didn’t make me perfect. However, it made me intentional, and that made all the difference.

I still looked in the rear-view sometimes, but now, I did it only to remind myself how far I’d come — not to go back.

As the weeks turned into months, the ache began to soften. It didn’t disappear completely—hurt rarely does—but it no longer ruled my days, and in the quiet that followed the storm, I began to hear something else: a whisper of purpose.

For so long, I had wrapped my identity around that relationship—around being someone’s person, someone’s peace, someone’s home. Now, with only God to lean on, I started asking different questions: Who am I without them? What am I here for? As I had lost myself and my purpose being immersed in that union.

It was in those quiet morning moments—coffee in one hand after fasting, journal in the other—that I started to remember things I had forgotten about myself. The dreams I had shelved. The passions I once poured into others but never into me. There was a spark again, something I hadn’t felt in years. A desire to live with intention, to give from a place of wholeness instead of emptiness.

God wasn’t just healing me. He was repurposing me.

I felt a pull toward helping others who were walking through their own valleys—friends, strangers, men who thought they’d never have peace again. I started writing more honestly, sharing parts of my story that I once hid. Somehow, pain had turned into testimony. And my vulnerability became a bridge for others to cross over into hope.

I realized that my worth wasn’t tied to being chosen by someone else. I was already chosen. Already seen. Already loved beyond measure.

So no, I didn’t come out of that heartbreak the same. I came out wiser, less rigid, stronger. With a heart more aligned with God, and hands more ready to serve.

This new season didn’t look like what I had planned. But it felt sacred.

And for the first time in a long time—I was excited for what was next. 

As the weeks turned into months, the ache began to soften. It didn’t disappear completely—hurt rarely does—but it no longer ruled my days, and in the quiet that followed the storm, I began to hear something else: a whisper of purpose.

For so long, I had wrapped my identity around that relationship—around being someone’s person, someone’s peace, someone’s home. Now, with only God to lean on, I started asking different questions: Who am I without them? What am I here for? As I had lost myself and purpose being immersed in that union.

It was in those quiet morning moments—coffee in one hand after fasting, journal in the other—that I started to remember things I had forgotten about myself. The dreams I had shelved. The passions I once poured into others but never into me. There was a spark again, something I hadn’t felt in years. A desire to live with intention, to give from a place of wholeness instead of emptiness.

God wasn’t just healing me. He was repurposing me.

I felt a pull toward helping others who were walking through their own valleys—friends, strangers, men who thought they’d never have peace again. I started writing more honestly, sharing parts of my story that I once hid. Somehow, pain had turned into testimony. And my vulnerability became a bridge for others to cross over into hope.

I realized that my worth wasn’t tied to being chosen by someone else. I was already chosen. Already seen. Already loved beyond measure.

So no, I didn’t come out of that heartbreak the same. I came out wiser, less rigid, stronger. With a heart more aligned with God, and hands more ready to serve.

This new season didn’t look like what I had planned. But it felt sacred.

And for the first time in a long time—I was excited for what was next. 

 

1^st Corinthians 13: 4-7

“4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

 

“With the ache receding and purpose stirring, creativity slipped back into my life almost unnoticed—like sunlight creeping across a room just before dawn. Falling in love with yourself and passions will help to calibrate your purpose.

Healing isn’t linear—and it’s not just about what was done to me. Somewhere along the path of heartbreak, I had to stop and admit the hard truth: I had caused pain, too. In my brokenness, I’d hurt someone I once loved. In obvious ways, but also in sharp words, silence that punished, control disguised as concern. I used my own wounds to justify actions that weren’t love, and that realization cracked me open all over again.

Looking in the rear-view, I didn’t just see what they did—I saw what I did, and that was the beginning of real repentance.

I started writing not to share, but to confess. Quiet mornings with my journal became a sacred space. The pages didn’t lie. They held my rawest admissions, my deepest regrets, and slowly, something shifted. I wasn’t writing to escape guilt—I was writing to own it, to make sense of it, to surrender it to the God who sees even this and still doesn’t turn away- Just like David.

It wasn’t performative. It was accountability in ink.
“Faith without works is dead.”
So I started asking: What does repair look like when the damage has already been done?

I started fasting and praying more. Being slow to anger, while burning pride and ego out of my life. My thoughts. And my heart.

I reached out where I could. No expectations—just truth, apology, and space. Some doors stayed closed- thankfully. Some responses were gracious. All were humbling. I didn’t get to decide how others healed from what I’d done, only how I lived differently going forward.

I started writing more intentionally—business proposals, poems, stories braided with hard-earned wisdom. I wrote about emotional immaturity, about cycles I had inherited and repeated, and about breaking them with God’s help. My creative gift wasn’t just for beauty anymore—it was for reckoning, and for rebuilding.

Writing gave my guilt somewhere to go,-into something redemptive. It reminded me that transformation is a daily choice. Not just to feel sorry, but to live sorry. To live changed.

So I prayed prayers that began, “Lord, help me to walk in your will. Help me to rid myself of the spirit of aggression, of pride, and ego. Help me be someone whose love heals, not harms. Help me to continue believing and trusting in you. Help me to not lean on my own understanding, and in ALL my ways I should acknowledge you, for you will direct my path.”

I couldn’t rewrite the past. But through writing, I could tell the truth about it—and create a new future where grace wasn’t just received, but reflected.