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 told me he didn’t want anything serious — and then turned around and called me “his girl.” Told me he loved me. Made promises he had no intention of keeping. It was emotional whiplash. One day I was everything. The next, I was finding “I love you” texts to other girls on his phone.

I remember locking myself in a bathroom at a party after seeing one of those messages. He stood on the other side of the door — calm, cool, convincing — telling me it wasn’t what I thought. That it was just friendship. That he loved me differently. I believed him. Because I wanted to. Because I needed to. And I hated how easily I gave in.

Even then, the shame started to creep in. I knew I looked foolish. I knew people were tired of hearing excuses for him. But I couldn’t admit how far I’d gone — how much I’d given, how little I was getting back. I was already in too deep, and part of me thought I could fix it if I just held on tighter.

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. I twisted myself into whatever shape I thought he’d find more lovable. I tried so hard to be his dream girl that I forgot to be a whole person. Honestly, I don’t even think he ever met the real me — just a version I hoped would be enough.

And somewhere between the gaslighting, the love-bombing, the silent treatments and the sudden affection — I disappeared. I became someone I didn’t recognize. Someone desperate. Someone who didn’t sleep unless the phone was near her face, waiting on a text that might never come. Someone who replayed every conversation, trying to decode silence like it was a secret language I was failing to understand.

One minute, I was too much. The next, not enough. And I stayed. Thinking that maybe if I could be a little prettier, a little quieter, a little less… me — he’d stay too.

That kind of back and forth messes with your mind. You start to question reality. You start to question yourself. I wasn’t just heartbroken — I was exhausted. But I thought love was supposed to feel like that. I thought love cost you something.

And so, I kept paying. With my time. My body. My heart.

Because deep down, I believed that if I gave more of myself, I could finally earn all of him.

But real love — the kind that reflects Christ — doesn’t leave you confused. It doesn’t make you question your worth. It doesn’t ask you to shrink. Jesus loved us before we ever did anything to deserve it. His love isn’t transactional. It’s steady. It’s safe. It’s free.

And I didn’t know that 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 deep I was in it. That’s how tightly I had wrapped my identity around being chosen — by someone who never promised to choose me.

Years later, I visited him when he was stationed with the military. The weekend felt like a movie. He kissed me goodbye. Told me he loved me.

And then he ghosted me.

For months.

When he finally did reach out, it was only for one thing — and it wasn’t my heart. I told him I was trying to live for God now, that I couldn’t keep living like that. He laughed. Said he didn’t believe in fairytales. That was the moment I knew it was over. Really over.

But the shame didn’t leave when he did.

I carried it quietly. The shame of staying too long. The guilt of how much of myself I gave. The ache of knowing I 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.

Shame is sneaky like that. It whispers:

“You let this happen.”

“You should’ve known better.”

“You’re too broken to be loved like that.”

And for a while, I believed it.

But God never talked 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’s steady and safe. The kind of love I didn’t think existed. The kind of love I almost gave up on. And it’s not perfect — but it’s true. And that truth was hard fought.

London is married now too. And I wish him well. This isn’t a hit piece. This is a warning flare.

To the girl reading this — the one who’s holding your breath, hoping he’ll choose you soon — hear me:

You are already chosen.

You don’t have to lose yourself to be loved.

You don’t have to twist into someone smaller to be kept.

You don’t have to perform to be worthy.

I don’t share this story out of bitterness. I share it because I remember what it’s like to want love so badly, you forget you already have it — from a God who doesn’t change His mind about you.

I share it because I spent years begging to be loved — and nearly lost myself in the process.

But you don’t have to stay stuck. You can walk away. You can heal. You can come home to yourself and to the One who calls you beloved.

Jesus didn’t love us because we had something to offer. He loved us at our worst. Chose us knowing every flaw, every failure, every fracture. And that love — that steady, undeserved, real love — is the only thing worth anchoring your identity 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.