The Rose Without Thorns

I used to think I was the problem. Every time I heard someone gushing about how they made long distance “work,” I’d smile politely, but inside I was screaming, How?! I’ve tried. Once. Never again. It started out romantic, in that movie-like way. Endless texts, midnight videocalls, care packages with handwritten notes. For a while, I thought I was living in a Pinterest board. But slowly, the glow faded. Not because we stopped caring—but because distance changes things. The excitement of “I miss you” turned into the frustration of “You weren’t there.” Phone calls weren’t enough. We started miscommunicating over the tiniest things. The lack of physical presence started to feel like emotional absence, too. I missed the little stuff. Grabbing coffee. Arguing about what to order for dinner. Watching shows side by side in silence. You know, the everyday moments that aren’t grand, but matter so much. Love, for me, lives in proximity. And I know people say, “If it’s real, the distance won’t mat...

  For a long time, I genuinely believed I was the one messing everything up. Every disagreement felt like my fault. Every time I brought up something that bothered me, he’d twist it around — suddenly I was being too sensitive, too dramatic, too forgetful. He’d say things like, “That never happened,” or “You always take things the wrong way.” And because I loved him, I started to believe it. I remember one night clearly — I was upset because he’d made a sarcastic comment about me in front of our friends. Later, when I brought it up, hoping for a simple apology, he looked at me and said, “Wow, I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal out of a joke. You always do this.” The way he said it made me feel guilty — like I was the one overreacting. So, I apologized. That was the pattern. I’d express how I felt, and somehow, I’d end up being the one saying sorry. Slowly, I stopped trusting my own feelings. I started second-guessing everything — what I said, what I remembered, even how I...

  I’ll never forget the first time I saw the difference. It wasn’t during a happy moment. It wasn’t some grand romantic gesture. It was during a fight. Not a silly argument about what to watch on Netflix — a real fight. One of those fights where you can feel the heat rising in the room, where everything inside you wants to either scream or shut down completely. I was standing there, heart racing, already bracing myself for the worst. Because that’s what I was used to. I had been with men before who let their anger turn them into strangers. Yelling. Slamming doors. Saying things you can’t un-hear. Punishing me with silence for days. Making me feel small, like loving them meant surviving their worst moods. But this time was different. He looked at me — jaw tight, breathing heavy — and said, "I’m really mad right now. But I don’t want to hurt you. I need a few minutes to cool down, okay?" And then he did something that shocked me: He walked away — not from me, but from the argum...

If you had asked me a few years ago, I would’ve told you that romance was everything. I mean, come on—who doesn't dream of the grand gestures? Flowers for no reason, surprise candlelit dinners, spontaneous weekend getaways… I was convinced that's how love should be. So when I started dating Adam (not his real name), I fully expected those moments. I was ready for the dramatic gestures. But… they never came. At first, I brushed it off. I thought maybe I was just being impatient. But as the weeks went on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. He was always kind, always thoughtful, but… where were the surprise dates? The flowers? The “romantic” moments I’d seen in movies? One evening, after yet another Netflix-and-chill date, I couldn't hold it in any longer. I turned to him and said, “Why aren’t you more romantic? Like, don’t you want to do more… stuff?” He looked at me, confused. “I thought I was. I’ve made sure you’re safe when you drive. I check in on yo...

 When a man goes through a divorce, something inside shifts. It’s not just the end of a relationship—it’s the unraveling of dreams, routines, and the version of life he once believed would last. For many, the experience leaves behind more than paperwork and empty drawers—it leaves wounds that don’t always show. So when you meet a man who says he’s not ready to live together, or that he’s unsure about settling down again, don’t rush to label him as emotionally unavailable or afraid of commitment. What he’s really doing might be much braver than it looks—he’s healing. I remember the first time I fell for a divorced man. He was thoughtful, honest, and carried a quiet strength. But he was clear: he didn’t want to live together. Not yet. Not for a while. At first, I took it personally. I wondered if it meant I wasn’t enough. But as I listened—really listened—I learned that his boundaries weren’t walls to shut me out. They were fences around a garden he was still learning to tend. After ...

We were walking down the street, hand in hand. The weather was perfect, I had just shared a story that made him laugh, and for a moment, everything felt right. And then—it happened. A woman walked by. She was undeniably attractive, confident, and stylish. Nothing wrong with that. But what caught me off guard wasn’t her—it was him. His eyes followed her, head slightly turned, clearly checking her out… while he was right next to me. I felt it instantly—like a gut punch in the middle of a great day. I went quiet for a second, wondering if I was overreacting. But I wasn’t. I was right there, and he just looked right past me. Later that night, I couldn’t shake it. So I asked him: "Did you even realize you looked at her like that?" He paused. Then shrugged, "I didn’t even notice, honestly." That response stung more than the look itself. Whether it was true or not, it made me feel invisible. But here’s the thing—this happens to so many women. Some men do it out of habit. S...

 Giving your partner space is not a threat to your relationship—it’s a necessity. Some of y’all are in situationships that feel like emotional chokeholds, not because the love isn’t there, but because you refuse to let each other breathe. Every single day doesn’t have to be a joint venture. Every hour doesn’t have to be shared. You don’t need to be on FaceTime for 6 hours just to prove you care. Like babe... go read a book, take a walk, go water your plants—do something without your partner glued to your hip. This culture of being up under somebody 24/7 has created this delusional idea that if your partner wants space, it means something is wrong. Newsflash: space is healthy. Silence is healthy. Missing each other a little? Also healthy. When you don’t allow someone time to just be, resentment creeps in. And the worst part? You start losing yourselves. You become a single unit so fused together that you can’t even tell where your partner ends and you begin—and that is not romantic,...

  It’s not easy to admit when love starts to fade—especially in a relationship that once felt like home. But the truth is, falling out of love doesn't always look dramatic. Sometimes, it looks quiet. Emotionally numb. Detached. For me, it started with a shift I couldn’t ignore. I found myself being attracted to other people—not just physically, but emotionally. I started craving connection outside my relationship. Conversations with strangers felt more exciting than small talk at home. And that was my first red flag. But what really made it clear was when I stopped caring. I didn’t get upset when he did something wrong anymore. Not because I had learned to stay calm, but because I didn’t feel invested enough to be bothered. I stopped asking where he was going, stopped checking in, stopped wanting to know. I stopped sharing the little things about my day, and slowly, he stopped asking too. I didn’t feel the need to fight or fix anything. I just… emotionally clocked out. At some poin...

Seven years ago, my life changed. I went through a divorce that shook me to my core. I was left to pick up the pieces—not just of my own heart, but of a life I had to rebuild for my son and me. My son is autistic, and raising him has been the most challenging and beautiful journey I’ve ever known. Every day requires patience, creativity, and a love that knows no limits. He doesn’t see the world like everyone else—and that’s his superpower. Watching him grow, overcome, and shine in his own way has inspired me more than words can explain. Raising a child on the autism spectrum comes with its own set of challenges and joys. It’s a journey that requires patience, resilience, and an endless amount of love. There are days filled with progress, laughter, and connection. And then there are days that test every bit of strength I have. But through it all, he’s my why. He’s the reason I push forward. Being a single parent has taught me how to be resourceful, how to advocate fiercely, and how to c...

 “I’m open to marriage again—but I’ve learned not to chase timelines. I’d rather build a life that feels whole on its own and let love find its place in it. No rush, just trust.” Eventually, I'm Open to Marriage Again — But I'm Not in a Hurry There was a time when I thought love had to follow a timeline—meet, date, marry, settle. And when that path didn’t work out the way I imagined, I found myself questioning everything: my choices, my timing, even my worth. But healing has a funny way of teaching you what pressure never could. Now, I understand that love isn't something to chase. It’s something to grow into. And marriage? It’s beautiful, sacred even—but it’s not a finish line. It’s not a reward for rushing through life or checking off boxes. It’s a partnership meant to complement the life you’re already nurturing on your own. So yes, I’m open to marriage again. But I’m not in a hurry. I’m more interested in becoming than arriving—more drawn to alignment than urgency. I wa...