“The only journey is the one within.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke
And So We Begin
July 29, 2025
I know what you’re thinking — what a cliché, right? A blog about purpose and the human condition that starts with some AI-generated image of someone looking out into the distance?
Yes. That’s exactly what this is.
Unpolished, raw, real — and maybe even difficult to read.
But isn’t a cliché simply something every person has to navigate, in one way or another? I am a walking cliché. All that to say: if you’re reading this, this isn’t for you.
It’s for me — a way to find substance, purpose, and maybe, a new zest for life.
So let’s just get pen to paper — or fingers to keyboard, in this case.
Starting in late 2017, I met a man who changed my life. Another cliché, right? I was coming out of a string of controlling, manipulative, and emotionally abusive relationships. I didn’t have a damn clue who I was, how to stand on my own, or what “freedom” really meant. I lived a life without friends, without family, and certainly without purpose.
During that time of rebuilding, I met who I thought was the man of my dreams. He was honest, a little rough around the edges, but real. The kind of man who holds you in your worst moments — or when you just need to cry about burning your grilled cheese. He gave me grace, stability, and freedom (maybe a bit too much sometimes, but more on that later). He encouraged me to grow, reminded me daily that I could be whatever I wanted.
It all felt perfect… on the surface.
By 2022, things looked stable and loving — at least from the outside. Inside, I was screaming.
Yes, I had a wonderful man who gave me the space to discover myself. I uncovered my love for travel, for chasing beautiful cultures, landscapes, food — and let’s not forget the wine. I started cultivating friendships and reconnecting with family (even if they still don’t quite understand me). I began to see my future more clearly — where I wanted to go, who I wanted to be.
But he wasn’t on that path with me anymore.
I saw a man who clung to comfort zones, who stressed before social events, who preferred staying home. After all our years together, we’d only taken one vacation — outside of short cabin trips within our state. Meanwhile, I had gone on several adventures with friends and family. I saw visions of a life with kids, a home in another state, a relationship where I didn’t have to plan everything.
I wanted a partner.
Someone who’d plan a surprise weekend trip. Who’d learn my love language. Who’d lean into those small, intimate moments and bold gestures.
Instead, I had the world’s best roommate.
In 2023, I was motivated to fight for us.
We loved each other, but we’d stopped communicating, stopped being romantic, stopped being us. We tried to revive what we once had — the connection that had once felt like lightning in a bottle. Some parts of our relationship began to heal. And then, in the fall, he proposed.
I was over the moon. I got to be the spooky, black-dress bride I’d always dreamed of. It felt magical for a moment — I had love, family, friends. It was beautiful.
Then came 2024.
We made deposits, I found a dress, and the checks started rolling out. But my spark started to fade. The engagement became a band-aid barely holding things together. I could see our future — sleeping in separate beds, rarely touching, never dating unless I planned it, a quiet life of parallel existence. What was I doing?
While budgeting every paycheck for a wedding I wasn’t sure I wanted, I spiraled. I turned to Reddit, therapy, my sister — anyone who could help me see clearly.
And then… he lost his job. Again.
And suddenly, everything was clear.
I was engaged to the kindest, most generous, loving man — but we’d grown apart.
Or maybe I had grown.
I wanted shared adventures, confidence, passion for food and culture, spontaneous date nights, and deep connection. I didn’t see it anymore. And though he tried — really tried — in those final months, my heart had already drifted too far. The connection was gone.
We weren’t perfect. We both made mistakes.
We both stopped nurturing what we had.
We stopped talking.
And maybe that’s how most relationships quietly end — not with explosions, but with silence.
Now here I am — one month into my so-called grand adventure. I moved out. I left my sweet kitty with my ex so he could stay with his sister. A week into my new life, I lost my father. And now, mentally, I’m barely skating by.
Grief is a funny thing.
It’s not just the death of a person — it’s the death of a relationship, of a version of yourself, of a life you thought you wanted. It’s leaving behind a pet, a home, a circle of friends that were mostly his.
It comes in waves, every day.
And anxiety and depression sure don’t help.
So here I am — writing to no one, or maybe to someone who sees themselves in these words.
This is only the beginning of many entries, I hope.
More on my past, more of my thoughts, maybe a poem or two.
I just know this: it will help me heal.
My Bright Black Heart 
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