From Surviving Love to Feeling Safe

 

An honest journey through heartbreak, healing, and opening my heart again.

By Mrs. Journey Clare

Chapter One: When Being Together Still Felt Alone

Years of feeling alone while being with someone almost made me carry that same energy into the next chapter of my journey.

When we are hurting, we can move through life without realizing how much our wounds influence our choices. We recognize something familiar in another person’s pain. Sometimes we build a connection around surviving before we ever learn how to grow together.

That pattern started young for me.

I knew how to endure. I knew how to give. I knew how to keep moving when I was tired. And I knew how to hold on to potential.

But potential does not become change or growth without execution. Someone has to take the first step, follow through, and keep showing up when the work becomes uncomfortable.

I spent years believing in what could be. I could see possibilities, opportunities, and a future worth working toward. I wanted someone beside me who was willing to help build it.

My previous marriage left me feeling deeply unsupported. From the outside, because I had a voice, it may have looked like I held all the power. I could speak up, make decisions, and get things done.

The truth is, I felt powerless throughout that marriage. Being capable did not mean I felt cared for. Having a voice did not mean I felt heard. I felt trapped in a life I knew the universe had not designed for me.

People may have believed I was being supported. What they did not see were the times I walked home from NSU to Huntersville because I did not have the vehicle. They did not see me waiting for a ride that came late or never came, while I still had work and responsibilities waiting on the other end.

After NSU came graduate school, and I was still pushing forward while carrying things people could not see.

They did not see me taking online classes for both of us, filling out job applications, thinking ahead, and trying to create opportunities. I was dreaming about what our lives could become while longing for a partner who would push alongside me.

I wanted him to bring his own ideas, effort, and determination. I wanted our future to matter enough to both of us that I did not have to generate all the momentum.

Constantly running a race with a weight on my back was exhausting especially when the person I wanted beside me was supposed to be my best friend, my partner, my housemate, the person I could count on.

The constant negativity wore me down. I wanted to share an idea without immediately having to defend why it might work. I wanted encouragement, curiosity, and some willingness to try.

My hunger for more was insatiable. More connection. More purpose. More life. I wanted someone who believed in me, invested time in me, and cared enough to keep discovering who I was becoming.

Just existing beside someone was eating away at my soul. I felt like fruit left on the vine—full of sweetness, slowly withering without ever being tasted.

Behind closed doors, I was also watching him struggle with what I experienced as secret addictions and repeating patterns. From my perspective, some of those patterns reached back into his own childhood. Yet I felt blamed for struggles that had begun long before our relationship.

Drinking an entire bottle in one sitting. Taking pills simply to take them. These were things happening while I was trying to keep our family moving.

After giving birth by C-section, I remember enduring pain because my prescribed pain medication was gone, even though I had not taken it, and I could not get it refilled. I needed care while recovering from surgery and bringing a child into the world. Instead, I was left managing pain and trying to understand what was happening.

There was also the exhaustion of protecting my children while shielding the family from the truth. I carried the frustration, covered the gaps, and tried to keep things together. In protecting everyone from knowing, I kept much of my own experience hidden.

Then people saw my anger. My words. My reactions. Those became the visible story, while so much of what happened before them remained behind closed doors.

I am accountable for the ways I caused hurt. The circumstances surrounding my reactions deserve to be acknowledged, too. My behavior had consequences, and so did what I was living through.

It hurt to feel that people had already chosen whom they would hold accountable—and that my ability to keep functioning made my suffering easier to overlook.

I wanted to come home to a cooked meal sometimes, some quiet, some consideration. I wanted a place where I could finally exhale. Someone to notice when I was tired and take something off my plate without needing a list of instructions.

What does support mean if I still feel responsible for carrying everything? Sharing a house did not give me the partnership I needed.

For me, as a woman, safety comes from knowing my partner has my back. I feel it through follow-through, thoughtfulness, and consistency. Through the things someone does before I have to ask because they have paid attention to what would make my life easier.

I wanted to trust that if I stumbled, someone would reach for me.

And if I am honest, I had been yearning for that safety long before this relationship ever existed.

Life had already taught me to expect betrayal. Somewhere along the way, I learned to treat it as something people do and something I was supposed to tolerate. I learned how to keep going after being hurt, but I had not fully learned that I could choose a life where I was not continually preparing to be hurt again.

Those expectations followed me into adulthood. Familiar pain was easier for me to recognize than dependable care. I kept trying to love my way into feeling secure.

When two hurting people come together, they learn each other’s battle wounds. But knowing where someone hurts does not mean they know how to care for that hurt.

And in full transparency, I learned his wounds, too.

At times, it became a full-blown war of who could hurt whom the hardest.

When words were said, they cut deep. The abuse I had experienced and the loss of my mother became things brought into arguments. Those wounds were already painful. Hearing them used against me was devastating.

Then came the tit for tat. I would go right back at him.

“Let’s do this, since this has become a game.”

My defenses became attacks. At the time, I felt I had to strike back to survive emotionally in that relationship. I did not want to keep feeling defenseless, and hurting back began to feel like a way to protect myself.

That does not erase the hurt my words caused. I have to own the moments when I used what I knew to wound him, too. It also tells me how unhealthy things had become that retaliation felt necessary.

We should not have to survive our relationships.

I did not want to become skilled at hurting someone I loved. I did not want to rehearse my defense before a conversation or wonder whether something I shared in vulnerability would be used against me later.

And the pain did not only come through words.

Some people think shutting down cannot wound someone because nothing is being said. I understand needing space to calm down and gather your thoughts. But repeatedly leaving someone without communication, affection, or an effort to reconnect can be deeply painful.

Trying to love someone who remained emotionally unavailable left me feeling rejected and alone. Between the cutting words and the emotional distance, there were times when I did not know how to reach him without losing more of myself.

I kept explaining my pain, hoping the right words would finally help him understand. I thought that if I encouraged enough, gave enough, or loved harder, something would change.

But how could he truly see me when he had not yet learned to see himself?

And I had to turn that question inward. Was I seeing myself clearly? Was I acknowledging what this relationship was doing to me? What was I accepting? How was I responding? Who was I becoming in all that pain?

I could recognize his wounds and still overlook how much mine needed care.

I held on to potential because I believed change was possible. I still believe people can grow. But I had to accept that believing in someone does not make them ready to act.

Not everyone is willing or ready to push through the discomfort required for the life they say they want. Sometimes people remain in the pain and the “what ifs,” discussing achievable ideas without taking steps toward them. Complaining becomes easier than facing fear, taking responsibility, and following through.

Meanwhile, the person waiting beside them has a life passing by, too.

I could encourage, explain, wait, and believe. I could not make his choices or do his healing. My own healing was work I needed to take responsibility for.

A shared history cannot do the work of daily participation. You can share a home, a bed, and years of memories and still feel profoundly alone.

Eventually, I had to ask myself how much of my own life I was willing to spend waiting.

I do not have to define my former partner entirely by the pain of that marriage to tell the truth about what I experienced. I can recognize that he had struggles of his own. I can have compassion for those struggles and still acknowledge the verbal abuse, the loneliness, and the ways we hurt each other.

His pain deserved compassion. Mine deserved care.

Understanding what he was carrying could not require me to remain miserable, unsupported, and unseen. Taking responsibility for my behavior also meant recognizing that we could not keep hurting each other and expect peace to appear on its own.

I deserved room to grow. I deserved to receive care while I was still there giving it. And I needed to stop treating my ability to endure as a reason to stay.

I began to see how much loneliness had shaped my expectations. I expected to handle everything. I expected to be disappointed. Even when I imagined a different future, I pictured myself carrying it alone.

I did not want those expectations to keep choosing my life for me.

I wanted to understand my patterns, take responsibility for my choices, and learn what care could feel like without having to fight for every piece of it.

I could no longer keep abandoning myself while waiting to be seen.

Something had to change. And I was finally willing to begin with me.

Chapter Two: Allowing Love to Feel Safe

So I made a change.

But leaving a relationship did not immediately change everything I had learned inside it. I still carried the expectations, the defenses, and the fear. I knew how to keep going alone, even when someone was standing beside me.

And a few times, I almost ended up with the same man in a different body.

Different face. Different voice. Familiar patterns.

I had to become honest about what I was choosing and why. What was drawing me toward these relationships? What was I overlooking because I could see potential? How often was I preparing to carry someone instead of finding out whether we could build together?

Doing the work and holding myself accountable changed the trajectory of my life. I began paying closer attention to how I felt around someone, how they responded to my needs, and whether their actions matched their words.

I could want love deeply and still need to slow down long enough to recognize what I was accepting.

Then I entered a space where someone began showing me something different.

From day one, he communicated, “I bring stability.”

Those words reached a part of me that had been tired for years. It was also the way he looked me in my eyes. His body language. His presence. And, over time, the actions that gave those words meaning.

A wall I had spent years building began to come down.

I wanted to receive what he was offering, but wanting safety and feeling comfortable with it were two different experiences. Distrust almost followed me into a relationship where I was being given reasons to feel secure.

There were moments when fear kicked in. I would catch myself anticipating disappointment, looking for the change, wondering when the care would stop. I knew how to prepare for being let down. Allowing myself to depend on someone, even a little, felt unfamiliar.

I had to have honest conversations with myself.

“Do you really want safety? Do you really want love? This person is showing you through his actions. Can you allow yourself to receive it?”

And sometimes, more directly:

“Do not self-sabotage. Speak about what scares you. Let him show you who he is, and pay attention to his actions.”

My fear deserved compassion, but I could not let it make every decision. I did not want to push someone away just to avoid the possibility of being hurt.

I could take my time, keep my boundaries, and still allow closeness. I could ask for reassurance instead of testing his love. I could say, “I am scared,” instead of pretending I did not care.

I deserved the chance to experience love without ending it in my mind before it had room to grow.

That required me to pause and consider whether I was responding to what was happening between us or remembering what someone else had done.

Sometimes I needed reassurance. Sometimes I needed to speak about a fear instead of letting it turn into distance. Sometimes I needed a moment with myself before I could explain what I was feeling.

His consistency helped. The way he communicated helped. So did the reminders:

“You are safe.”

Those words carried a different weight on the nights I woke from night terrors tied to the abuse and trauma I had experienced in my life. He would hold me, gently rub my back, and remind me where I was and that I was safe with him.

In those moments, I could let him see the pain I usually carried privately. I did not have to find the perfect words. I could accept the comfort of being held while the fear settled.

People see my voice, my work, and my ability to keep going. Most never see those nights. They do not see the pain behind closed doors or how much it means to have someone respond with patience and tenderness.

His care gave meaning to the words, “You are safe.” Little by little, I began allowing myself to feel it.

I began to understand how much reassurance meant when it was supported by behavior. Someone following through. Making time. Looking me in my eyes and listening. Considering what I needed. Doing something thoughtful before I had to ask.

Those everyday moments gave me room to breathe.

I had spent so long wanting someone to have my back that I had almost forgotten I would need to let them stand there. I was accustomed to handling things myself. Receiving care meant allowing someone to see the tiredness I usually pushed through.

It meant admitting that I wanted support.

It meant letting myself be vulnerable without immediately trying to regain control of how I was seen.

I learned that I can open my heart, and I will continue to love.

Love can look different for everyone. For me, it is vulnerability, trust, safety, consistency, stability, and care that shows up in everyday actions.

Vulnerability is being able to say, “That hurt me,” or “I am afraid,” without having to turn those feelings into an argument to make them heard. It is sharing something tender and trusting that it will be treated with care.

Trust grows when words and actions keep meeting each other. When someone follows through, tells the truth, and takes responsibility when something goes wrong.

Safety is being able to speak honestly without fearing that my truth will become a weapon. It is knowing a disagreement can be worked through without cruelty. It is feeling that my needs have a place in the relationship.

Consistency gives me time to believe what I am experiencing. Each act of care adds to the next. I do not have to build my understanding of the relationship around one beautiful moment and spend the rest of my time hoping it returns.

Stability allows me to rest. I can put energy into living, growing, and loving because I am spending less of it trying to figure out where I stand.

And care lives in the details. Remembering something that matters to me. Noticing when I am overwhelmed. Offering help. Making my life easier in a way that tells me I have been considered.

I want to offer those things, too.

My healing includes learning to communicate before resentment builds, to listen without preparing a defense, and to take responsibility for the ways fear can affect my behavior. I want to remain curious about the person beside me and make room for his needs as well as my own.

There is still work for me to do. There are old expectations I am learning to question and habits I am learning to change. But I can see progress in the moments when I speak openly, accept help, or allow a peaceful day to simply be peaceful.

I am also learning to live without demanding a guarantee about the rest of my life.

If this relationship does not last forever, that will not erase the care I experienced within it. I will still have known what it felt like to be loved, considered, and safe in those moments.

That matters to me.

I do not want fear of a possible ending to take away the love being offered in the present. I want to be here for my own life while it is happening.

Opening my heart does not require me to stop listening to myself. I can receive love, honor my needs, and trust my ability to make a change if I need to. That trust in myself gives me more room to be present with someone else.

After years of surviving, I am allowing myself to experience something I once only yearned for.

I am learning to soften without disappearing. To receive without feeling guilty. To be seen even when I do not have everything together.

And now, I am Mrs. Clare.

I still have healing to do, but I am allowing myself to be loved through it. To be held on the difficult nights. To speak honestly. To receive care and believe that I deserve it.

Fear almost made me miss this chapter. I am grateful I opened my heart enough to live it.

I will continue to love—with vulnerability, trust, safety, consistency, and stability—and give that same care to the person beside me.

Because for me, it is better to have loved than never to have loved at all.

—Mrs. Journey Clare