The Perfect Storms
There’s a unique kind of intimacy that forms when two storms meet, like waves crashing against each other in shared chaos. That’s how it was with him—the professor. From the beginning, I sensed this relationship might be destined to fail, the way you sometimes just know a storm will end in wreckage, yet we dove in anyway. He was finding his way as a single father, still reeling from the loss of his wife, whose illness had shadowed his life for years. I was grappling with a reality altered by cancer, trying to piece myself back together, scar by scar. We were bound by our wounds, both trying to find life in the aftershocks of our own disasters.
The beginning was a dream, an escape from everything I thought I knew about love and relationships. He was attentive and kind, and there was laughter, a much-needed balm in the whirlwind of grief and recovery. For a while, he made me forget about everything—the surgeries, the pain, the fragile identity I was barely clinging to. In him, I saw a glimmer of hope, something to hold on to when I felt myself slipping.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, things changed. He became comfortable, and communication that once felt like breathing began to falter. Maybe it was my vulnerability, or maybe it was that he wasn’t ready for someone like me—a woman who’d already been to hell and back, who didn’t have the patience for the slow unraveling of unspoken feelings. I kept telling myself that it was my anxiety, my own bruised heart. After all, it had been years since I’d tried to open up to someone like this. And I’ll admit, I had my own ways of keeping people at arm’s length, easy hookups that required nothing more than a nod and an exit. But this, with him, felt different. It was different.
Then came the second year, a new rhythm, as if we’d both decided to lean into the messiness of it all. There were good times and moments that felt right. I could laugh with him, playfully argue, make up, and fall back into bed with a comfort I hadn’t felt in ages. We traveled that winter—New York, Arizona, Minnesota—a grand, frost-bitten tour that felt, in parts, magical and then bitterly cold. That trip exposed everything that was beautiful and flawed between us. I was wild, free-spirited, sometimes a little too sharp in my humor. I didn’t mean to cut, only to lighten, to make life feel bearable. But he was different. Older, quieter, with a dry sense of humor that left little room for the playful edges I couldn’t stop myself from showing.
Looking back, I can see it clearly now. We were two people drowning, clinging to each other for breath, hoping the other would fill the gaps left by our losses. I tried to be the one to open his eyes, to guide him to a new way of seeing things, maybe even change him. But people don’t change unless they’re ready, and he was still too tightly bound to the weight of what he’d lost. And maybe I, too, was bound to my own need to feel needed, to fix, to educate.
In the end, our connection taught me more than I realized. It taught me that healing isn’t found in someone else’s arms, that sometimes, two broken people can’t fix each other; they can only remind each other of the cracks. And maybe that was the point. Maybe some relationships aren’t meant to last but to teach, to hold up a mirror so we can see ourselves more clearly. It wasn’t meant to be forever, and maybe that was the most important lesson of all.
There’s something profound about stepping into your own light, finding strength after years of compromise, and embracing the person you’ve become. My journey with Michael was one of those relationships that, in hindsight, was a chapter meant to lead me somewhere else—toward a deeper understanding of who I am and what I truly need.
It began unraveling the moment I started streaming online for Belly Knows Best. It was a passion project that became a wellspring of confidence and creativity, breathing life into a part of me that had lain dormant for too long. With each video, each shared story, I felt myself growing, healing, and moving forward. Michael, meanwhile, was stuck, almost like he was glued to the very pieces of his past that held him back. As I flourished, he became a shadow of himself, weighed down by his own unresolved trauma.
When I told him that we needed to end things, his response was a gut punch cloaked in selfishness: “I can’t have another death in my life.” He made himself the center of my choice to grow and move on, ignoring that I, too, was someone who had known loss—both of people I loved and of the pieces of myself I’d sacrificed along the way. Yet I saw through it, and even as he clung to the familiar patterns of our past, I let go. You are your father’s son. Fruit and tree never falls far- the person you most despise is the very being you have become, instead of breaking a cycle you have perpetuated, just like all of your predecessors, you are no different.
The silence that followed was like the final chord of a song that had played its course. I knew it was over, and while the quiet between us felt heavy, I couldn’t bring myself to reach out. I had done my part. I had extended grace, patience, and understanding, even when it drained me. But with nothing left to give, I turned that energy toward something far more deserving: myself.
With this newfound clarity, I no longer needed to compromise. I’d been raised to shoulder blame, to be the one who bends and adapts, even at my own expense. But I realized that true love doesn’t require that kind of sacrifice. It shouldn’t demand that I diminish my own needs or dim my light to keep the peace. There’s a freedom in understanding this—one that opens a future of possibility, where I can embrace love without losing myself.
Michael may not have recognized what he had or what he lost, but I see it now, as clear as day. This chapter was a necessary detour, and I walk away from it without bitterness, only gratitude for the lessons it held. The stars have already begun to realign, and in the space I’ve created for myself, I know there’s someone waiting on the other side. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will, in time.
For now, my focus is on the things that bring me joy and fulfillment: my work, my son, and the unshakable belief that my journey has led me here for a reason. And as I step into the future, I carry with me a sense of peace, knowing that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be—whole, unashamed, and ready for what’s next. But I still get annoyed that he continues to like my Instagram posts. LOL