The Truth About My Ex-Relationship

“The truth is that I loved him very much and he loved me too, but, sometimes, love just isn’t enough. And that’s okay. That’s just… the truth.”

I was twenty-four when we met. It was the summer before I began teaching middle school theatre, and I was still working as a barista at a coffee shop in New Orleans. He’d come in during my shifts to study for the bar exam. I’d give him a free dark roast.

Our relationship took off quickly and with force. One minute, we were texting back-and-forth getting to know one another, and three months later, we were on a plane to New York City to see my first Broadway show. I still remember our first kiss and our second. I remember seeing my toothbrush in his Tardis-shaped toothbrush holder for the first time. I even had a drawer where I kept a change of clothes and a pajama set.

When the school year began, any of my time spent not at work or rehearsal was spent with him, and happily so. He brought me comfort I desperately needed at the time. My great-grandmother had died several months prior to meeting him, and I was grieving her loss, as well as adjusting to my new role as a full-time teacher and watching my acting career slip right past me. I felt completely out of control of my life. He brought me stability.

My love for him was slow to develop. My feelings were strong, but as a woman raised by a single mother, saying I love you to a man felt foreign to me, so I took my time. We exchanged I loves yous in September, two months after our first date. It took me twenty minutes to say it back. I feared making a mistake so badly, and I wanted to be sure.

Looking back, there were signs early on that perhaps we weren’t the best fit for one another long term. His job required him to move frequently, which would (and did) make it hard for me to establish my career. He wanted to raise his children bilingual, but I don’t speak Spanish (and I tried). He wasn’t well-versed in navigating emotions, and I am a walking billboard for emotional. Despite our differences, we stuck together, and by June of the following year, I packed up my life in New Orleans and moved to be with him in Washington, D.C.

The first year in D.C. was incredibly difficult. It was hard for me to find work that wasn’t part-time, but the work that I was doing provided enough money for me to cover my bills and keep me sane. I fell into a solid workout routine in D.C., simply because I had the time, and also because the gym was across the street from our apartment. The neighborhood we lived in, Old Town Alexandria, to be exact, was positively perfect in every way. It looked like a Hallmark movie set year-round. We could walk to dozens of stores, restaurants, and bars, had a view of the Potomac and Capitol from our building, and more. For the first time in my life, I felt like an adult, and by year two in D.C., I felt settled, fulfilled, and ready for a life with him.

I had forgone my dreams of being an actor and comedian while living in D.C. and embraced writing more and more. I have always been an avid writer and blogger, but I dug deeper into that role because it could travel. And if I were going to share my life with him, we’d be traveling often. So, I sacrificed my dream of being like my comedic idols and got a full-time job as a content specialist at a local non-profit and spent my days writing about homelessness, workforce development, and monitoring social media trends. I wasn’t always fulfilled at work, but I felt like an adult. I felt responsible, like I was doing it all right. I felt like I made my family proud, and I felt like I made him proud. But everyday I would wonder what it would be like to be doing what I wanted again, and that feeling never left me. Instead, it nestled itself deep within my gut and would surface during the strangest times — while watching awards shows, while walking the dog around the neighborhood, while sitting in an Airbnb in Seattle.

It took me awhile to put a name to it. Grief. But, instead of grieving the loss of my grandmother, I was grieving the loss of myself.

After two years in D.C., the military sent him to Southern California. I remember the day he told me the news. We were in our kitchen, and it was winter, so I was wearing knee-high socks because they kept my feet warm. They were his. A homemade curry was simmering on the stove.

“I got my assignment today,” he said.

I’m not good with cliffhangers, so, naturally my anxiety began to manifest into nervous laughter as I exclaimed over and over again, “Tell me! Tell me! TELL ME.”

When he said Edwards Air Force Base, I didn’t believe him at first. There was no way that he was being sent to Edwards, which was only a few hours outside of Los Angeles. I just didn’t believe it. After minutes of back-and-forth, I couldn’t control my laughter and excitement, and somehow ended up knocking a bottle of glitter from the top of the refrigerator that shattered across the floor.

In July of 2018, after the movers had packed our lives away in boxes, we loaded up a month’s worth of clothes and toiletries and the pets into my car and embarked on the cross-country drive to Southern California, where I envisioned my dreams of becoming an established actor, writer, comedian, and partner come to fruition. But, I had my doubts.

Prior to departing D.C., we visited Puerto Rico for a week so he could show me where he grew up and so I could meet his family. We would also be celebrating our three-year anniversary. I thought, for sure, he would propose, and I knew that I would say yes. After a week of drinking fresh coconut water on the prettiest beaches I have ever seen, snorkeling in crystal clear water, and getting to meet his family, there was no proposal. Not a ring or even an inkling of a thought in sight. On the flight home, I remember looking over at him, asleep with his head against the window, and knowing that he would not be the man I would marry.

My six or seven months in California were incredibly difficult emotionally, physically, and mentally. Aside from taking classes at Upright Citizens Brigade a couple times a week and attending their shows, I didn’t feel I had much going for me, and I didn’t feel joyful. I experienced some of the most intense anxiety I had ever felt in my life, overexercised in an attempt to rid my body of the excess energy I carried around, stress-baked and discovered I am actually pretty good at baking bread, and cried. A lot. I cried so much. Mostly, I felt as though I had spent time building a life with someone who couldn’t see me as their wife. My self-worth plummeted. I became angry, I felt depressed, and I knew something had to change.

The fights were becoming more and more frequent. He still traveled for work, and our communication became less and less while he was away. I remember one two-week stint in particular when he contacted me maybe three times. I didn’t reach out either. It was apparent the love we had for one another was fading and the incompatibilities were catching up with us. On December 31, 2018, we called it. And I began my plan to move back home to New Orleans the following day.

The truth about my ex-relationship is that it wasn’t as awful as my brain sometimes tells me it was. Like the loss of my grandmother, and like the loss of my identity in California, I am grieving the loss of him and the life we built. The life we could have had. Seven months later, there are still moments when I miss him, or wonder if it could have worked out, or questioned why none of his family reached out after the break up to, at the very least, wish me well.

But those worries are no longer mine, and I happily release them today.

The truth about my ex-relationship is that when it worked, it really worked. And when it didn't, it really didn’t. The truth is that the years we spent together are precious memories for me full of travel and morning runs and donut dates. The truth is that I loved him very much and he loved me too, but, sometimes, love just isn’t enough. And that’s okay. That’s just… the truth.

I’m happier now on the other side. I smile and laugh everyday. I create everyday. I still have anxiety (and will always have anxiety), but I am no longer crippled by it, nor do I overexercise to rid my bones of my nerves.

I am calm. I am at peace. And I am okay.

He is a good one. He tried his best at the time. And I wish him a lifetime of happiness.

And that is just the truth.