Imagine Only Having a Memory of Being Loved
Sometimes, like just now, a song comes on and it reminds me of him.
Not in a small way. Not like passing through an old thought and moving on.
It stops me.
It reminds me of someone who still loves me, someone who still thinks of me, someone I still think of. Someone whose eyes I can still remember. Someone whose laugh still lives somewhere in my chest like it has a right to be there.
And then the truth comes with it.
We didn't work.
We will not be together.
But I am alone.
And that is the part that opens something in me I do not know how to close.
Nobody has helped me in a long time. Not really. Not in the way a person helps you when they see you are tired before you have to say it. Not in the way someone reaches for you because they want to ease the weight, not because you finally broke down enough to prove you needed something.
Nobody has looked at me in a long time with respect and love and passion and consideration all at once.
Nobody has looked at me like I am still a woman.
Not just a mother.
Not just a problem-solver.
Not just the one who holds everything together until there is nothing left of her but duty and noise.
A woman.
Someone to be held.
Someone to be wanted.
Someone to be touched with tenderness instead of need.
Someone to be desired emotionally and physically, without having to beg for softness like it is a luxury item.
It has been so long.
So long since someone looked at me and I could see love looking back.
So long since someone held me like my body mattered.
So long since I felt chosen instead of used, considered instead of managed, wanted instead of tolerated.
And when a song brings him back, it does not just bring back him.
It brings back the feeling.
The eyes.
The laugh.
The arms.
The private words.
The memory of being loved in a way my body still recognizes before my mind can defend itself.
That is what hurts.
Not just that I miss him.
It is that I remember what it felt like to be seen, and now I live without it.
I remember looking into the eyes of someone that loves me.
And now I am here, alone, knowing it will not work, knowing we will not be together, and still carrying the ache of that love like a handprint on my soul.
It hurts.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not in a way that needs to be explained away or fixed with advice.
It hurts my soul.
And then the truth comes in.
Even now, I am afraid.
Even now, if he said, “Fine, let’s do something,” I do not know if I would be brave enough to walk toward it without looking over my shoulder at everyone else.
Because part of me is still afraid of the ramifications.
My family.
Their anger.
Their judgment.
Their threats.
Their disappointment.
Their silence.
Their ability to make me feel like choosing myself is the same thing as abandoning them.
And I hate admitting that.
I hate admitting that even after all this time, I still do not know how to stand in my own life and say, “I matter too.”
Not as a slogan.
Not as something women say on the internet under a picture of coffee.
Actually say it.
I matter too.
My heart matters.
My loneliness matters.
My need to be loved matters.
My body matters.
My life matters.
I have spent so much of my life choosing everyone else.
Choosing their comfort.
Their reactions.
Their needs.
Their version of what I am allowed to be.
And then they choose themselves.
They choose their feelings.
They choose their boundaries.
They choose their lives.
They choose their relationships.
They choose their futures.
And somehow I am still standing there, afraid to do the same.
Because I learned that every day could become another loss.
Another hit.
Another punishment.
Another grandchild threatened.
Another relationship held over my head.
Another round of guilt thrown at me for my choices.
I learned that choosing myself did not just mean choosing myself.
It meant preparing for what everyone else might take away.
That is the part that hurts the worst.
Not just that I lost love.
But that I keep realizing I have spent so much of my life choosing everyone else, while everyone else still finds a way to choose themselves.
#imagine #AskLemon8 #relationshipadvice #garmsoriginals #shareyourthoughts
Reading this emotional narrative truly resonates with anyone who has felt the complex mixture of love, loss, and self-neglect. Over time, I’ve found that the ache of remembering someone who truly saw and loved you can linger like a shadow, quietly shaping how you view yourself and what you expect from relationships. The longing expresses not only the loss of a partner but the deeper pain of feeling unseen and unappreciated in everyday life. What really stands out is the courage it takes to confront those feelings and the fear of choosing oneself despite external pressures, such as family expectations and the risks of judgment. From my own experience, it’s a gradual process to reclaim your worth and understand that needing love and tenderness is not a luxury but a fundamental human need. This means learning to set boundaries and say no to guilt trips, even when it feels like you’re risking everything. Music and moments of memory often serve as gateways to those powerful emotions, as the article describes a song evoking vivid images of love’s past embrace — the eyes, the laughter, the touch. Such moments can both heal and reopen old wounds, reminding us of what we once had but also of what we still hope to find within ourselves. Ultimately, the narrative invites readers to reflect on their own journeys, encouraging a gentle but firm assertion: "I matter, too." Putting oneself first is an act of bravery and self-respect. It’s about finding softness and desire beyond just duty and noise, and embracing your identity beyond roles others impose. While the path isn’t easy, seeking support from friends, therapy, or communities that validate these feelings can make the journey feel less lonely. In sharing this deep, personal story, it highlights a universal truth — we all need to be seen, loved, and chosen for who we truly are. And remembering that can be the first step toward healing the soul and building a life where love and self-compassion coexist.
