It took just one day of our first holiday together for everything to make sense. One day for the knot in my stomach to tighten into something I could no longer ignore.

I felt myself shrinking, and suddenly, all the little moments I’d brushed aside in the weeks before snapped into focus.

The Red Flags I Didn’t Want to See

The discomfort around me having male friends (even my gay friends…he was convinced that none of them were actually gay!). The sulking. The way he’d punish me with silence or skipped meals if I dared to have a life outside of him. The scene he caused on my birthday because men had wished me a happy birthday on Facebook. The intensity I’d mistaken for excitement. The constant messages.

He had barely left my flat since date number four. We had even moved him into my flat the weekend before that fateful holiday.

At the time, it all felt like passion, attention, someone who really cared.

When Intensity Masks Coercive Control

But standing there on that first day of the holiday, watching his mood turn, I realised it wasn’t passion at all. It was control. The same pattern I’d lived through years before. But this time, the intensity came so quickly that I didn’t recognise it for what it was… until that day on holiday, when everything became painfully clear.

The feelings hit me harder than the behaviour itself. The panic rising in my chest. The familiar sense of walking on eggshells. The way my body tensed. The confusion. How could something that felt so intense and promising now feel so unsafe? And the shame, too. Shame that I’d ended up here again, in a situation I swore I’d never repeat.

And that was the hardest part. I’d promised myself I’d never end up in another controlling relationship. I thought I’d learned too much, grown too much, healed too much. But coercive control doesn’t always creep in slowly. Sometimes it arrives wrapped in intensity, affection, and the illusion of connection. And it wasn’t until that day, away from home, away from my support system, that the mask slipped enough for me to see what had been there all along. The intensity hadn’t been love. It had been coercive control.

Self‑Abandonment, Boundaries, and the Work of Unlearning

I felt sick. But I knew what I had to do. I left the hotel and booked a flight back home for later that day.

Thankfully, I wasn’t dealing with the aftermath alone. I’d already restarted therapy before the relationship even began. For those who have followed my musings for a while, you’ll know this isn’t my first experience with therapy, and I always planned to go back to it someday.

Therapy isn’t always easy, but it was desperately needed. It’s where I learned the language for what I’d been doing for most of my adult life: self‑abandonment. Shrinking myself to keep the peace. Ignoring my own needs because someone else’s seemed louder, heavier, more urgent.

It’s where I’ve started to understand why I keep ending up in relationships, and not just romantic ones, where I’m the one doing the emotional heavy lifting, the one making excuses, the one hoping someone would show up for me in the way I showed up for them. The way I’d rationalise someone not checking in, or minimise my own discomfort because “they’re going through a lot.”

I’d been doing that for years. Putting other people’s needs above my own. Telling myself their feelings mattered more. That I could handle it. That I didn’t need anything in return. But I do. And therapy has helped me see that. It’s helped me recognise what I want and what I don’t want. Not just in romantic relationships, but in every part of my life. It’s helped me understand that my needs aren’t an inconvenience. They aren’t too much. They’re not something to apologise for. They’re valid. They matter. And they deserve to be met.

PTSD, Hypervigilance and the Body’s Response to Trauma

My therapist has introduced me to the Anger Iceberg. I have felt A LOT of anger post-break-up, but she’s helped me to realise that anger is often just the surface layer, hiding fear, shame, loneliness, disappointment. It’s helping me to make sense of a lot of things.

I’ve also experienced PTSD, something I had no idea I could get from a relationship. The hypervigilance and the flashbacks have been grim.

I’ve been doing my therapy sessions through BetterHelp, and honestly, it’s been one of the best decisions I’ve made for myself. Having that consistent space has been a huge part of why I was able to walk away when I did. If anyone reading this feels like they might need that kind of support too, I have a discount code that gives you a free week of therapy when you sign up. I’ll pop the link at the end of this post.

I’m Not Healed, But I Am Healing

And here’s the thing I’ve learned through all of this: therapy doesn’t mean I’m healed. Not in the neat, tidy, “all sorted now” way people sometimes imagine. There is no final destination to healing. It’s a process. A long one. A messy one. One that asks you to look at yourself with honesty, compassion, and sometimes a level of discomfort you’d rather avoid.

There’s been a lot of self‑discovery. A lot of learning and unlearning. I’ve become a bit of an investigator in my own life, asking myself ‘Why?’ far more than I ever used to. Why am I minimising my needs? Why am I making excuses for someone else’s behaviour? Why am I accepting crumbs and calling it a connection? Why am I putting someone else’s comfort above my own?

And the truth is, these patterns don’t just show up in romantic relationships. They show up in friendships too. In the way I’ve always been the one who checks in, the one who holds space, the one who understands, the one who forgives. Meanwhile, I’ve made excuses for people not showing up for me in the same way, telling myself they’re busy, they’re stressed, they’re going through something. But therapy has helped me see that I need to stop doing that. I need to stop abandoning myself in the name of empathy. I need to stop assuming other people’s needs are automatically more important than mine.

I’m not “fixed.” I’m not “done.” But I’m learning. I’m spotting things sooner, putting new measures in place, and building boundaries I should have had years ago. And I’m slowly becoming someone who doesn’t abandon herself at the first sign of someone else’s discomfort.

What I’m Taking Into the Next Chapter

I’m walking away from this chapter with something a lot of people don’t ever achieve: awareness. Self‑trust. A deeper understanding of who I am, what I need, and what I will no longer tolerate.

And that feels like growth.

Closing this chapter isn’t about blaming him or shaming myself. It’s about acknowledging the truth of what happened, honouring the version of me who did her best with what she knew, and recognising the version of me who walked away. The one who didn’t wait for things to get even worse. The one who didn’t abandon herself completely this time. The one who is learning, slowly and steadily, to take up space in her own life.

Closing the Chapter With Clarity and Self‑Trust

And yes, at some point, I’ll dip my toe back into dating again. I’m not going to let this experience turn me off men entirely (even if I am still a bit cynical at the moment). But I also know this: I don’t need a man to complete me. I don’t need a man to validate me. I don’t need intensity to feel alive. As long as I’m healthy, I get to travel, and I get my fill of passion when I want it, I’m happy. Anything else – love, connection, partnership- will be something I choose from a place of strength, not scarcity.

And that, more than anything, is why I’m ready to close this chapter. Not because it didn’t matter, but because I finally understand that I matter more.

I’m still learning, still healing, and now I’m choosing myself. And in that choice, I found my freedom.

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