I want to start this chapter by telling you that it’s okay to be terrified. It’s okay if the thought of walking away feels less like "freedom" and more like "failure." We live in a world that loves to talk about "leveling up" and "knowing your worth," as if leaving a toxic or stagnant relationship is as easy as putting down a heavy book. But it’s not. It feels like tearing out a piece of your own skin.
Leaving feels like losing. It feels like losing all the time you invested. It feels like losing the "us" that you fought so hard to build. It feels like losing the future version of yourself that you imagined living with them. Even when you know, deep in your bones, that the relationship is hollow, the act of officially closing the door can feel like you’re the one who failed the test. But I’m here to tell you that surviving is not a failure.
I’m not here to push you out the door. I’m not here to tell you to "just leave." I know that sometimes, you aren't ready. And being "not ready" is a valid place to be. I just want to hold space for the complicated, messy, and heavy reasons why your feet feel like they’re made of lead.
Let's talk about the "What If." That ghost is the hardest one to exorcise. What if I leave and they change for the next person? What if I leave and I never find anyone else? What if I just waited one more month, and that was the month everything finally clicked? We treat these "what ifs" like they are premonitions, but usually, they are just our fear of being alone trying to bargain for more time.
The fear of being alone is a physical thing. It’s the silence in the apartment at 6 PM. It’s having no one to tell the boring details of your day to. We stay in confusing relationships because even a painful connection feels more "alive" than the quiet of ourselves. We’ve become so used to the noise of the drama that the silence feels like a threat.
And then there is the emotional investment. We’ve spent months, maybe years, pouring our energy into this person. We’ve learned their coffee order, their childhood wounds, the way they breathe when they’re sleeping. We’ve become experts on them. To leave feels like throwing away a degree we worked so hard to earn. It feels like "wasted time."
But I’m not sure... I think maybe time is never wasted if it taught you the shape of your own heart. You didn't "lose" those years; you lived them. You learned how much you are capable of giving. Now, the question is just about where that giving belongs.
If you’re currently sitting with your tarot deck, feeling that heavy pull in your chest, let’s look at two simple paths. Not to tell you what to do, but to let you see the energy of each choice. Because sometimes, we are so focused on the pain of leaving that we forget to look at the pain of staying.
Pull a card for this. Often, you’ll see cards like the Five of Pentacles or the Nine of Swords. It represents a slow erosion. Staying in a place where you are not seen is like trying to grow a flower in a room with no windows. You can stay, but you have to accept that you will eventually stop blooming. It is the path of familiar sorrow.
Pull a card for this. You might see the Death card or the Six of Swords. Yes, these cards are quiet. Yes, they look a bit sad. But they represent movement. Leaving is the path of unfamiliar hope. It is a sharp, clean pain followed by a slow, steady healing. It’s the silence before the dawn.
Look at the two cards. Which one feels more like "you"? Not the version of you that is afraid, but the version of you that is tired. Most of us choose the "familiar sorrow" because we know how to manage it. We’ve become experts at it. The "unfamiliar hope" is terrifying because we don't have a map for it yet.
In Tarot, the Ten of Swords is often seen as a scary card—a person with ten swords in their back. But I’ve always found it strangely comforting. It represents the absolute end. It means that things literally cannot get any worse. The "losing" is over. There are no more swords to be felt. From here, the only thing left to do is turn over and watch the sun come up.
I remember when I finally left a relationship that had been "unclear" for three years. I didn't feel empowered. I didn't feel like a "boss." I felt like a ghost. I cried in my car for two hours. I felt like I had lost everything. But a week later, I noticed something small: I had stopped checking my phone every ten minutes. The background noise of anxiety had simply... stopped.
I hadn't lost my life. I had just lost the weight that was keeping me from living it.
I’m not sure if you’re finished yet. And if you aren't, that’s okay. Stay as long as you need to. Stay until the "What If" is answered. Stay until the investment feels truly gone. But please, while you stay, don't tell yourself that you’re "losing" by leaving.
When you leave something that doesn't serve you, you aren't losing a partner; you are gaining a self. You are gaining your own nights back. You are gaining the ability to walk through your own life without waiting for permission.
Tonight, just sit with the cards. Look at the path of staying and the path of leaving. Don't make a choice. Just acknowledge that both doors are there. And know that whichever one you eventually walk through, you are still the same person who knows how to love. And that love? It’s not going anywhere. It’s just coming back home to you.
(The grief of leaving is just the love you had for the potential, finally realizing it has nowhere else to go but back into your own heart.)
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