A conversation with the body
I am sorry.
I’m sorry for not allowing you to accept the love you fully and wholeheartedly deserve. You are worthy of it. Somewhere along your journey you learned that it was okay to give so deeply but you weren’t worthy of accepting it. For so long I’ve allowed you to sit in situations that weren’t good for you, that didn’t hold you the way you deserved to be held, that gave you crumbs, no reciprocation. I allowed you to tolerate bare minimums, and for that I’m truly sorry. You deserve the world because you don’t hesitate to give it. You give and love with your whole being. For you, loving someone isn’t verbal, it’s an act.
I’m sorry for the stories I told myself in the silence. A delayed text became proof you didn’t matter. A pause became rejection. I turned every quiet moment into evidence against you, when most of the time it was just someone living their life, not thinking about leaving you at all.
I’m sorry for the tension I let live in your body. For the way one silence could hijack an entire day — pull you out of your work, your focus, your peace — and drag you into a spiral that told you everyone was already halfway out the door. Your body believed it before your mind could question it. I’m sorry I let that alarm run the show for so long.
I’m sorry for the little girl who stood at that window and cried alone instead of asking for comfort. I’m sorry that became the template — that not knowing meant assuming the worst, and assuming the worst meant grieving in silence instead of reaching for someone. With one person I learned to ask, to ask for an explanation when the silence got too loud. With another, the wiring was too old, too deep, and I couldn’t find the words fast enough to stop the spiral. I’m sorry I never went back for that little girl at the window. She needed someone to tell her it wasn’t about her. I’m telling her now.
I’m sorry I believed I was too extra to be loved. No one needed to say it directly — the silence was enough. The expectation that crying meant weakness, that vulnerability meant burden, that feeling deeply meant being difficult. I learned to perform fine instead of being honest, because fine was acceptable and the truth felt like too much to hand anyone. I’m sorry I shrank the realest parts of myself to make sure I’d be easier to keep around.
I’m sorry for the child who learned that tears invited more pain instead of comfort. Shut up unless you want something more to cry for — that was the lesson, and I learned it perfectly. I became fluent in disappearing my own feelings before anyone could see them and use them against me. I’m sorry I carried that fluency into every relationship after, mistaking silence for safety when really it was just an old fear still running the show.
I’m sorry for every time I abandoned you just to avoid being abandoned by someone else. For every time you needed clarity and I let you settle for confusion. For every time you needed consistency and I let you tolerate inconsistency. For every time you wanted honesty and I let you accept crumbs and call it enough. You were always so willing to extend grace to everyone else. I rarely extended that same grace to you.
I know what it does to you when someone chooses something else over you. I know how fast that turns into the old story — see, not chosen again. But someone failing to choose you was never proof that you’re unworthy of being chosen. It was never confirmation of your deepest fear. You are not too much. You are not too emotional. You feel deeply, you love deeply, and yes, that means you hurt deeply too. But your depth was never the problem.
Going forward, I’m asking you to stand firm in this: someone not responding doesn’t subtract from your worth. It takes nothing away from you. You are still whole. You are still worthy of love whether they answer in five minutes or never at all. And if it turns out someone truly doesn’t want you — that’s allowed too. It doesn’t make you less. You don’t lose your wholeness because one person chooses not to choose you.
So here’s what we do instead: it’s okay. Take five breaths. Process it, then go back to what you were doing. Go back to focusing on yourself. Let the silence sit — you don’t have to fill it, fix it, or solve it. Instead of waiting, keep moving. The text will still be there. So will you.
I love you. I will always love you, even if someone chooses not to.
— Gigi