The End of Us, The Start of Me

So, I’ve been sitting with my thoughts a lot lately—questioning my views, my values, and the core philosophy I carried through that entire relationship, and what it all really meant. I was asked recently, at what point do you feel like it’s time to take the ring off? And that question has sat heavy, thoughts whirling, refusing to settle.

So I started asking myself, what will it actually take for me to take off this ring? Because it’s really about what this ring actually means to me.

And the ring… well, the story starts way before the ring. It starts with a conversation where I was looking at her mum and saying, "I know that one day I’m going to marry your daughter". 

And at that point, really, to be fair—hands on hips, staring me down—I should have realised that I was stepping into uncharted territory, sailing the black seas rather than riding the wave. I was never going to 'win'.

I reflect on a moment when we both said that if we ever split up, it would be because of our parents, not because of us. And I sat heavy with that. From that moment on, it felt like a constant effort to try and find my place. I don’t even know if “win people around” is the right phrase—more like trying to earn the right to feel secure in being the most important person in the life of the person I believed was my soulmate.

That should have been a warning shot. The tears in the eyes, that angry glimmer. And instead of stepping back, I thought: I’ll prove you wrong. Tell me no and I’ll say, 'right, fuck you—hold my beer'.

But it wasn’t one-sided. I looked back through messages before I blocked her, and there she was saying the same things. Talking about marriage. Talking about that moment—standing at the end of the aisle, turning around, seeing each other in that soul-colliding instant. Those words hold you. They hold you in a way you don’t understand until someone tells you: no, you’re not having that.

And that’s when it hits.

One of my best friends asked me, what value does this bring? What value is there in punishing yourself like this? And my answer was clarity. It brings me clarity.

But it’s been 14 days, 18 hours, 16 minutes. And for someone who thinks the way I do, that’s a long time to sit inside your own head. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense is like trying to put a wig on a palm tree and wondering why it doesn’t look right.

How do you find clarity when you’re mentally wading through mud? How do you get to that place where you can say, it’s okay—stop, forgive your mind, nurture your heart?

I kept asking myself, is this my time? Is now my time? And nothing sat right. It all just sat like a lead balloon in my gut. And it hurt.

I kept going over everything. Every conversation. Every moment I ignored my gut. Every moment I didn’t. Asking myself: why didn’t I listen? And what does that say about me, not her?

Because I’m responsible for my responses. I’m responsible for how I processed things, how I justified them, how I made them make sense.

So instead of asking what value it brought me, the real question was: what am I bringing to myself?

And the answer was pain.

I was hurting myself.

And I’m done hurting.

I feel like I’m on the brink of something—some kind of closure. Like waking up from a dream and trying to cling onto it, knowing it meant something important.

In that dream, I was in her world. Her family’s space. Walking past people I would have once stopped and spoken to. Standing near places that used to matter. And then seeing the family members people who I know are estranged in the waking world, that would never be standing side by side—smoke and daggers, and shadows I never fully understood.

And one of them looked back at me and winked, like: 'I see you. I’ve been here'.

But the phrase that always echoed—blood’s thicker than water.

And I realised something when I woke up. That clarity comes with pain. Because it was the crashing realisation that I was never going to be fully part of that world. Not in the way I had imagined. More like I would always be an addition, an add-on—someone invited in moments, but never truly written into the core of it. Never on the guest list, even if I was sometimes in the room.

And why would I want that?

Why would I want to dip a toe in the river when what I really wanted was to throw myself in completely—fully, freely, naked and without hesitation?

Why didn’t I realise I might never feel able to do that?

That’s not about them. That’s about me.

Why did I give it value?

And I’m done hurting. I’m done hurting myself trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense.

The only sense I can make of it is this: I was lucky.

I was lucky because I hadn’t fully realised the dynamic I was in. I hadn’t realised, until it was almost too late, that I deserve more. That I need to listen to myself more.

I ignored my mind, my body, my soul. I chased what I thought I wanted instead of listening to what I actually needed.

So when I was asked what it would take to take the ring off, the answer is this: I needed to go through this. I needed to sit in it, question myself, understand why I ignored my own warning signs.

Because they were there. I just didn’t listen.

-(And yes, that’s been a pattern for me). But this time, I thought I was doing it right. I thought I was being honest, being open, being true to myself.

But looking back now, it feels like I was telling myself a version of the truth that kept the dream alive.

So now I’m sat in my car. The rings are back—not out of pettiness, but because they mean more to me than they ever would have otherwise to her. My house and car keys are back where they belong. I’ve got a packet of snacks beside me.

And I’m going to Langsett.

Back to the place where it began. Our first proper date. An unfamiliar hike that pulled me out of my comfort zone, the kind that leaves your legs aching but your mind wide open. The ease of sharing stories, laughing, joking—those early moments where everything feels light and possible.

I remember becoming completely, almost absurdly, fascinated with a bright yellow caterpillar. Stopping, laying aside it, getting lost in that tiny moment of curiosity and joy. That was me—free, uninhibited, unapologetically myself.

That memory now feels distant, softened, worn and tattered in the way an antique film reel nears it's final play at the cinema. Days where everything felt vivid. Days when the colour wasn’t just in what I wore, but in who I was.

And I’m going back there.

I’m going to find that place where our journey began, and I am going to finish it there.

That’s where the ring comes off.

That’s where this story ends.

Because now, it’s time to heal. Long overdue time to heal.

I choose to take my power back. I choose control. I choose me.

And I’m not ashamed of that.

Because when I’m sat at 2am, consoling my daughter while she cries and asks why she left us, why she did this, what it means—what could we have done—I tell her this:

People come into your life for a reason. You’re meant to learn something from them.

And what I learned wasn’t that she was my forever.

What I learned…

is that I matter.

I matter more than I ever allowed myself to believe.

And today—today is the day that ring comes off.

And I couldn’t be more ready for that moment.