I may have walked away with nothing, but I gained everything—my peace, my strength, and myself.

When I left, I didn’t take much. No grand settlement, no promises of security, no safety net. Just a few bags, a racing heart, and the quiet realization that I was stepping into the unknown. People asked if I was scared, if I regretted it, if I would reconsider. I won’t lie—there were moments when doubt crept in, whispering that maybe I had made a mistake.

But then, I remembered what I had left behind. The constant exhaustion of trying to be enough for someone who had already checked out. The nights spent lying awake beside a man who had long since stopped seeing me. The slow erosion of my confidence, my joy, my sense of self. I had stayed for so long, convincing myself that security was worth the sacrifice of my happiness. But in reality, I had been surviving, not living.

Walking away meant leaving behind the version of me that tolerated less than she deserved. It meant rebuilding, rediscovering, and reclaiming the parts of myself I had given up. I may not have had a house, a shared bank account, or a familiar last name anymore—but I had something far more valuable.

I had me. And that was worth more than anything I left behind.