I Used to Think I Was Just Someone Who Believed in People
(…but turns out, I was confusing “love” with psychic projection and romantic delusion. Whoops.)
So here’s the thing.
I used to think I was just one of those people who really, truly believed in others. Like, borderline spiritual levels of belief. I could look at someone and see the softness under the snark, the tenderness behind the avoidant texting, the potential oozing from their inner wounded child and think:
“Ah yes. A deeply good human. Just misunderstood. Needs love. I got this.”
Plot twist: I was not seeing their truth.
I was seeing their potential.
I can’t tell you how many times I made an argument to myself about this though, because when the stars align in just the right light, you get glimpses of the person I was convinced they wanted to be and would be consistently if they could be in a safe environment long enough to be it.
Which is just a poetic way of saying I was projecting harder than a film festival.
And don’t get me wrong—some of that is a gift. I do have a big, weird, intuitive heart. I’m the friend who will hype you up, call you out, and hold your hand through your 14th identity crisis. I know how to hold space. I know how to ride the emotional rollercoaster without flinching. I know how to love people deeply.
I still stand by that part of me.
The one who wants to believe in softness, in second chances, in the good underneath the mess.
That part of me is sacred.
But that doesn’t mean everyone deserves access to her.
You know what I didn’t know for a long time?
Loving someone for who they might be is just a socially acceptable way to abandon yourself.
Because I wasn’t just loving them.
I was working for love. I was performing patience. I was doing unreciprocated emotional labor and calling it intimacy. I was hoping someone would rise to meet me while actively stepping around all the ways they were showing me they wouldn’t.
And yeah—it wasn’t explosive.
It was quiet.
It was subtle.
It looked like staying calm when they snapped.
Making excuses for why they weren’t showing up for me.
Convincing myself that “they’re just going through a lot right now.”
Here’s the truth:
I wasn’t loving them. I was loving the story.
The hope. The “maybe one day.”
And when you get real about that, it stings a little—because it wasn’t even about them.
It was about the version of me who thought love could fix it.
Have you ever tried to build a future with someone who won’t even meet you in the present?
This is what no one tells you about falling for someone’s potential:
It’s not about them.
It’s about you.
It’s about the version of you that thinks if you can just love someone hard enough, they’ll magically become safe.
But love doesn’t work like that.
Love is not a spell.
And patience is not a personality trait—it’s often a very poetic way to avoid hard decisions.
I didn’t need another story about why they were the way they were.
I needed to stop outsourcing my safety to people who hadn’t earned my trust.
Because listen, hope is lovely—but it can’t hold your hand during hard conversations.
Hope won’t make you feel special on your birthday.
Hope won’t stop breadcrumbing you.
Hope won’t choose you, or meet you halfway.
Sure, hope can be beautiful.
But it cannot build a relationship.
That’s a job for trust.
For presence.
For someone who meets you where you are, not where they might be eventually if the stars align and they finally heal their childhood wounds and start therapy and magically learn how to emotionally regulate.
Sorry, I’m not betting on that anymore.
Even if I understand your trauma. Even if I see your good heart. Even if I get the why.
I’m not in the business of loving people who can’t meet me halfway.
I will choose me. Relentlessly. Even when it hurts.
Not because I’m cold.
Not because I’m bitter.
But because I finally love myself enough to stop needing a tragic little story to justify staying.
So what does it all mean?
It means I’ve retired from romanticizing the maybes.
I don’t invest in “potential.”
I invest in presence.
I pay attention to how someone shows up—not just what they say when they’re trying to keep me.
I don’t care what someone could become.
I care how they make my nervous system feel right now.
Because here’s the kicker:
Your brain will choose familiar chaos over unfamiliar peace every damn time.
Unless you decide not to let it.
So, when peace feels boring instead of anxiety-inducing?
That’s when I know I’m healing.
When my body stops flinching in anticipation of being disappointed?
That’s when I know I’m home.
So if you’ve been loving someone for who they might be…
If you’ve been confusing “potential” with “partnership”…
If you’ve been trying to earn love that should’ve just been given—
Here’s your soft but firm reminder:
You are not hard to love.
You just need to stop proving it to people who’ve never shown you they can hold it.
And if you need someone to remind you of that in your ears, on demand, while you're trying not to text them “just to check in”—I got you.
There’s a pep-talk for this exact situation.
I made Back Pocket Pep-Talks™ for the exact moment when your brain is trying to convince you that your intuition is too much and your standards are too high. (Spoiler: they’re not.)
Think:
1–7 minute audio pep-talks
For when you feel like you’re “asking for too much” but deep down know you’re not
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Because the bare minimum is not enough to build a future. And you already know that.
You just need a reminder.
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And then go take your love back. It’s precious. Not a clearance item.
Thanks for reading 🤍
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