The Truth Always Finds Its Way Home

 I didn’t think I would ever be writing something like this. Not because I thought I was immune to heartbreak, but because I truly believed I had found something real. I’m someone who doesn’t fall easily — but when I do, it’s with my whole heart. I don’t halfway anything. Not love. Not effort. Not belief.

I met him during a chapter of my life where I was open to building something meaningful. He said all the right things — not in a manipulative way, at least not at first. He just seemed thoughtful, intentional, emotionally mature. He worked in diplomacy, human rights, advocacy. He talked about integrity, education, inclusion. His words carried weight. He told me I was safe with him. That I could trust him. That he saw something rare in me.

And I believed him.
Because I wanted to.

We connected across distance and culture. We talked about our pasts, about grief, about family, about love. It felt sincere. Quietly magical. We talked about the future — where we could live together, where we’d travel, how we’d build a life that made sense to both of us. I let myself imagine something long-term. Something honest. Something good.

Eventually, I flew across the world to see him.
8,000 kilometers.
It wasn’t impulsive. It felt like the next step in a story that had been building slowly, with care.

But less than a day after arriving, everything began to shift.
Something felt off. I couldn’t explain it clearly at the time — it was just this quiet unease in my body.
There were gaps in the story. Unanswered questions. Deleted messages.
And then I found out: he was married. With children. A wife named Jollien.

I sat with that information in silence for a while. Not because I didn’t believe it, but because I didn’t know what to do with the pain. When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it. But he didn’t explain either. No apology. No accountability. Just avoidance. Emotional distance. Coldness.

He told me I was too emotional. Too suspicious. That I was reading into things too much.

But I wasn’t.
I was just trying to make sense of a reality that shattered under my feet.

He left me alone in a country I didn’t know, with no safety net and no care for how I’d get through the next few days. I was humiliated, heartbroken, and so deeply confused. I couldn’t believe I had come all this way — emotionally and physically — only to be treated like an inconvenience.

And still… I missed him.

That’s the part I didn’t want to admit to anyone at first.
That even after all of it — the lies, the betrayal, the abandonment — I still missed him.
Not the man he really was, but the version of him I believed in.
The version he let me build in my mind. The comfort. The voice. The idea of us.

But what I’ve come to understand is this:
Missing someone doesn’t mean they were good to you.
It just means you were sincere. That your love was real, even if theirs wasn’t.

I used to think love meant giving everything — being patient, being forgiving, being “understanding” even when I felt uncomfortable. I told myself that if I loved someone hard enough, they would eventually see it. Stay. Show up. But I’ve learned that love isn’t about how much you give up for someone else. It’s about whether that love is safe, respectful, and returned.

And this… was none of those things.

This wasn’t just a heartbreak.
It was a slow unraveling of trust — not just in him, but in myself.
I started doubting my instincts, my memory, my sense of reality.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t concentrate. My mind would replay conversations, trying to catch what I missed.

But over time, the truth settled in.
And with it came grief.
Not just for the relationship, but for the version of me who believed in it so fully.

I think about her often — the woman who booked that flight, who packed with excitement, who believed love was finally arriving. I want to hug her. Not scold her. Not shame her. Just hold her for a while. She did nothing wrong. She just hoped. She just wanted to be chosen back.

And now, I’m trying to choose myself.
Little by little.
Day by day.

I still have moments where I feel the ache.
Moments where I wonder if he ever thinks about what he did.
But I no longer need an apology to move forward.

The truth — even when it hurt — gave me clarity.
And clarity gave me peace.

I don’t want revenge. I don’t need closure from him.
What I need is to remember who I am when I’m not begging someone to love me.

I’m someone who shows up.
Who believes deeply.
Who loves with care and honesty and heart.

And now I get to offer all of that to myself first.

This story doesn’t end with justice.
It doesn’t end with reconciliation.
It ends with me sitting in my own quiet, soft power — knowing I survived what tried to erase me.

I’m not the same woman who flew to see him. I’m someone stronger. Softer, too.Someone who still believes in love — but no longer at the expense of her voice.

The truth always finds its way home.
And this time, it found its way to me.

And I’m not letting go of it again.