Leaving London

I’ve gone back and forth about sharing this. It’s deeply personal, a little embarrassing, and honestly, something I’d rather leave in the “God already healed me from that” folder. But I know what it’s like to be a young woman giving your heart to someone who doesn’t know what to do with it—and I know how lonely it feels when you think you’re the only one who’s ever done it.

So, here we go.

There was a guy once. We’ll call him London. And let me just say — if red flags could wave in the wind, the breeze was mighty strong back then.

I was in my early twenties when I met him. I don’t know what it was exactly — maybe the cocky grin, maybe the “I’ve got my life all figured out” swagger, maybe the way he was upfront and direct. Whatever it was, it had me hooked early. There was an ease about him, something smooth that made you feel like you were the only one in the room — even when, as I’d later learn, you weren’t.

He was charming, fun, confident. And I was vulnerable, attention-starved, and still figuring out who I was. A dangerous mix, in hindsight. I’d been through some family hurt and was carrying around wounds that hadn’t healed. And when you’re starved for attention, scraps can start to look like a feast.

Looking back now, I see the cycle for what it was. He was upfront about not wanting exclusivity — but then he’d do things like tell me he loved me, call me “his girl,” and make promises that felt a whole lot like commitment. It was like emotional whiplash. One day, I was the center of his world. The next, I was finding messages to other girls on his phone — messages that said he loved them too.

I remember once locking myself in a bathroom at a party after seeing one of those messages. He stood on the other side of the door, calm, convincing, telling me it didn’t mean what I thought it meant — that it was just friendship, that he loved me differently. I believed him. Because I wanted to. I needed to. And I hated how easily I gave in. Even then, the shame crept in. I knew I looked foolish. I knew my friends were tired of the excuses. But I couldn’t admit to myself how far I’d gone, how much I’d already given away.

And that’s where I have to pause and take some responsibility.

No, I didn’t deserve to be manipulated. But I allowed myself to be reduced. I silenced my own intuition, accepted less than I knew I was worth, and twisted myself into shapes I thought he’d find more lovable. I spent so much time trying to be who I thought he wanted that, honestly — I don’t even think he ever met the real me. How could he choose me when I didn’t show him who I truly was?

And somewhere along the way — between the arguing, the gaslighting, the silent treatments and sudden affections — I lost myself. I became someone else. Someone I didn’t recognize. Someone desperate, someone obsessed with fixing something that wasn’t even mine to fix. I was constantly on edge, overanalyzing every word, every silence, every shift in his mood. One minute, I was everything. The next, I was too much. Or not enough. It was madness. And I lived in it, thinking that maybe if I could just be a little bit better, a little less emotional, a little more perfect, he’d finally stay.

That kind of back and forth does something to your mind. You start to question reality. You start to question yourself. And somewhere in the chaos of trying to hold on, I lost my grip on who I was.

I kept hoping that if I gave him just a little more of myself — more time, more energy, more parts of my heart and body — maybe he’d want all of me. Maybe I could earn his love if I just stayed sweet, stayed quiet, stayed available.

Love — the real kind — doesn’t require you to shrink. It doesn’t leave you confused or questioning your worth. Real love, like the love Christ has for us, is offered freely. Jesus loved us before we ever did anything for Him. There’s nothing we could do to earn His love and nothing we can do to lose it. That’s what love is supposed to be like. That’s what I didn’t understand back then.

The relationship with London wasn’t just confusing. It was crushing. One of the many times it ended, I prayed for God to end me, too. That’s how much I had wrapped my identity around being wanted — how much I had tied my worth to being chosen by someone who never promised to.

Years later, I visited him in when he was stationed with the military. That weekend felt like a movie. He kissed me goodbye, told me he loved me — and then I didn’t hear from him for months. When he did finally reach out, all he wanted was a physical encounter. And when I told him I was attempting to align my life to Christ and couldn’t live like that anymore, he laughed. Told me he didn’t believe in God. Told me I was ridiculous to believe in such fairytales. That was the moment I knew it was over. Really over.

But the shame didn’t leave when he did.

I’ve carried it quietly — the embarrassment of having stayed so long, the guilt over how much of myself I’d given, the deep ache of knowing I’d ignored every red flag because I didn’t want to start over. I replayed the decisions I made, wondering what people would think if they knew. Wondering what God thought of me. I told myself I should’ve known better. I should’ve walked away sooner. I should’ve protected my heart.

Shame has a way of sticking around even after the person is gone. It whispers things like, “You let this happen,” and “You should’ve seen it coming.” And for a while, I’ve believed those lies. I let them keep me quiet. I’ve let them tell me that my worth had an expiration date.

But God never spoke to me like that.

He didn’t meet me with condemnation — He met me with compassion. He didn’t shame me — He restored me. Slowly, gently, fully.

I’m married now to a man who loves God and loves me in a way that is safe, steady, and honest—and that kind of love was hard fought. It took healing, unlearning, and learning how to trust again. But we’re here now. And I honor that by telling this story with care. My husband isn’t in competition with my past — he’s the answer to prayers I didn’t even know how to pray back then.

London’s married now as well. He seems happy. And I truly wish him well. This isn’t a hit piece. This is a warning flare.

To the young woman reading this who feels like if you could just lose a little more of yourself, he’d love you back — please hear me: you are already loved. You are worthy. You don’t have to perform to be chosen.

But I don’t share this story because I’m looking back with bitterness. I share it because I know what it’s like to ache for love so deeply that you forget you already have it — from a God who never changes His mind about you.

I share it because no girl should ever have to perform, compete, or be anyone other than who God made her to be in order to feel worthy of love.

I share it because I spent years trying to convince someone to love me, and I nearly lost myself in the process — and if that’s where you are right now, I want you to know: you can walk away. You can heal. You can come home to yourself and to the God who calls you His beloved.

When Jesus loved us, it wasn’t because we had something to offer. It wasn’t because we got it all right. He loved us when we were at our worst. He chose us, knowing full well how messy we were. And that love — that unwavering, undeserved, steady love — is the only love worth anchoring your life to.

So if you’re stuck in a situation where you’re constantly asking, “What more do I have to do for them to love me?” — let this be your reminder:

The love that’s meant for you won’t ask you to become less. It won’t leave you confused. And it won’t walk away when you finally choose yourself.