I still love her. She waits for me in the quiet corners of my day, in the warm comfort of habits I know are holding me back. She is the voice that says five more minutes in bed, the excuse that tomorrow I will start, the soft whisper that convinces me scrolling through my phone counts as rest. I still love her when I promise I will wake up at 6.am to read but hit snooze, when I promise I will hit the gym and never do. I still love her when I procrastinate watching shows and films I want to see.
She is in the little betrayals I commit to myself. I say I will eat better, but she smiles as I choose fast food, as I tell myself one cheat meal will not matter. I say I will cut down on whisky, just once in a while, and she makes me believe once in a while is forever. She is the reason I break my own boundaries, the reason I let myself overcommit, overindulge, and ignore the limits I know I need. She is the reason my “yes” comes out too easily, hollowing my spirit. The reason I become a gracious ghost at my own edges, smiling as I let them blur. She has lived with me through years of excuses, comfort, and easy pleasures, and somehow she feels like home.
I still love her, yes, but she is heavy. She is heavy in the missed mornings, the forgotten workouts, the books left unread, the health ignored, the boundaries I’ve let crumble. She is the version of me that fears effort, fears discomfort, fears showing up for herself. She is familiar, and that familiarity has been addictive, but it has also been my cage.
And yet, I imagine another version of me. I imagine waking up early, feeling the cool morning air fill my lungs, fingers tracing pages of a book instead of glowing screens. I imagine meals that nourish instead of numb, workouts that make my body hum instead of ache, evenings filled with reflection instead of haze. I imagine boundaries respected, promises to myself kept, limits honored without guilt. I imagine her watching quietly as I step into this new version, no longer clinging to me, no longer leading me into comfort that masks growth.
I still love her. I cannot erase years of companionship, years of easy comfort. But I am learning to honor her without surrendering to her. I am learning to choose a path that feels brighter, that feels alive, that feels like me. I am learning to love myself more than I have loved her.
She will always be a part of my story, but the chapters ahead will be written with the me I have yet to fully meet. I still love her, but I will love myself even more, and that is enough to begin.