I want to sit with you for a moment in the space where nothing is happening. Not the fighting, not the passion, just the long, quiet hallway of waiting. It’s a space many of us know intimately. We stay in a confusing relationship because, in a strange way, the confusion has become a kind of comfort. It’s a familiar weight. We know exactly how it aches, and there is a safety in that known pain that feels less threatening than the unknown emptiness of leaving.
We tell ourselves that we are "working on it." We tell ourselves that we are being patient, that we are giving them "space to grow," or that we are waiting for the "right timing." We treat staying like a neutral act—as if we are just paused, waiting for the movie to start again. But I’m starting to realize... that there is no such thing as a neutral act in love.
Every morning you wake up and decide to remain in a dynamic that leaves you hungry is a morning you have made a choice.
I’m not sure... but I think we hate the word "choice" when we are unhappy. We’d rather feel like victims of circumstance, or hostages of our own hearts. It feels better to say, "I can't leave," than to say, "I am choosing to stay in this confusion." Because if we are choosing it, then we are responsible for the cost of it. And the cost... the cost is usually our time, our peace, and the version of ourselves that still remembers how to laugh without looking at a phone first.
Think about the "Hope" we carry. Hope is a beautiful thing, but in a stagnant relationship, hope can be a cage. We stay because we are in love with a ghost—the ghost of who they were at the beginning, or the ghost of who they might become if they just "realized" how much they have to lose. We are waiting for a miracle, but while we wait, our actual life is slipping through the cracks in the floorboards.
Emotional comfort is a tricky thing. Sometimes, the "comfort" isn't actually happiness; it's just the absence of a new kind of pain. We stay because we don't want to explain to our friends why it didn't work. We stay because we don't want to go back to empty apartments and first dates. We stay because even a half-empty cup is still a cup you can hold in your hands.
But what if you were meant to have a river?
Look at the cards you’ve been pulling lately.Are you seeing the Hanged Man? Often, we think this card is about "enlightened waiting." We think it means we are sacrificing for a higher purpose. And sometimes, that’s true. But sometimes, the Hanged Man is just... stuck. He is hanging there by his own foot, looking at the world upside down, convinced that if he just hangs long enough, everything will change. But he is the only one who can untie the knot.
I’ve lived in that "upside-down" space for years. I was so proud of my "patience." I thought my ability to endure the silence and the mixed signals was a sign of my strength. I thought I was being a "Hanged Man" of love. But eventually, I had to look at the blood rushing to my head and admit that I wasn't being enlightened. I was just being stagnant.
I want you to be very gentle with yourself as you read this. This isn't about blaming you for staying. Staying is hard. Staying takes a massive amount of emotional energy. It takes more strength to stay in a house that’s slowly flooding than it does to walk out the front door. You are incredibly strong. But I want to ask: Is this where you want to spend all that strength?
If you choose to stay, choose it honestly. Don't say, "I have no choice." Say, "I am choosing to wait because I’m not ready to be alone yet." Or, "I am choosing to stay because I still have a tiny bit of hope left to burn." There is dignity in that honesty. When you own the choice, the confusion starts to dissipate. You aren't "lost" anymore; you are just in a place you’ve decided to stand for a while.
I think... maybe... we stay because we’re afraid that the moment we leave, they will finally become the person we wanted them to be—but for someone else. That’s the ultimate fear, isn’t it? That we are the "lesson" they had to learn before they could love the next person correctly.
But even if that were true—which it rarely is—your life is still your life. You cannot spend your years as a placeholder for someone else’s growth. You cannot be the soil that someone else uses to bloom if they aren't willing to share the flowers with you.
In Tarot, the Four of Swords is about rest. It’s about a necessary pause. But the Four of Pentacles is about gripping something so tightly that your hands start to cramp. Which one does your staying feel like? Does it feel like a rest, or does it feel like a clenching?
Most of the time, when we are "not choosing," we are actually clenching. We are trying to hold a crumbling situation together with nothing but our own willpower. And we are so tired. We are so, so tired.
Tonight, just acknowledge the choice. You don't have to leave tomorrow. You don't have to change anything yet. Just stop saying you're "waiting for things to change." Things change when people make choices. And you are a person.
The door isn't locked. It never was. You’re just currently choosing to sit by the window and watch the rain. That’s okay. Just remember that the rain is falling on you, too. And you deserve to be somewhere warm.
(The most terrifying thing about being free is realizing that the cage door was open the entire time.)
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