My mind and soul helped me to write these six short stories on the matter of being loved, loving another unconditionally, being discarded, being left behind, and becoming ones true-self in the aftermath.
There’s a massive difference between being in love and loving someone — and I learned it the hard way: alone, stunned, and picking up the pieces of my broken heart and life.
1. What Love Really Means
Being in love? It’s a high. It’s sexual fireworks on a Tuesday. It’s sitting together, legs entwined, sketching future house plans. It’s staying up all night, whispering dreams about how we’ll spend the rest of our lives. It’s intoxicating, really. The world feels sharper, brighter. But here’s the kicker—it’s often more about how you feel than who they truly are. It’s not always love. Sometimes, it’s just the thrill.
But loving someone? That’s different. That’s slow-burning. It’s seeing the full picture—flaws, habits, moods, silences, age lines—and staying anyway. It’s not romantic dinners, shared playlists, or being swept away ballroom dancing. It’s doing the dishes with burnt offerings. It’s holding each other, swaying in the summer breeze, when words don’t work. It’s the unglamorous, everyday effort of staying when it’s easier to walk.
2. The Weight of Staying
I didn’t cheat. I didn’t yell. I didn’t slam doors all that often, and I never once said I’d leave — not until I actually did. I showed up every day. I went to work. I paid what I could. I tried to carry the load like a good man’s meant to. I did what I thought was right. Not perfect — yet consistent, reliable, steady. For her. For the kids. For us.
But over time, I stopped feeling like a partner. I became a function. A bank account. A father. A fixer. A name on the mortgage. I handed over money, handed over years, handed over the best of me. And in return? I slowly stopped recognising the man in the mirror. The spark went out, and I kept thinking—just one more day, one more try, and maybe we’d find our way back.
I tried to talk. God knows I tried. But every time I opened up, it twisted. Into lectures. Into defensiveness. Into cold shoulders or confusion. Like I was speaking a language only I understood. So I stopped speaking. Not to punish her – but because the silence hurt less than the rejection. Because my feelings felt like a nuisance. Because my softness wasn’t welcome anymore.
I could fix the lawnmower. Fix the broken lock. Fix the bills. But I couldn’t fix myself, not in that house, not with the weight of walking on eggshells and still getting it wrong. I didn’t feel safe to be me. Not emotionally. Not deeply. Not when every word came back like a boomerang – sharp, spinning, and landing hard.
3. The Moment of Truth
Here’s where things turned for me: I loved her. Deeply. Through every messy chapter.
But one day, I woke up to the truth that being discarded isn’t the same as letting go. I didn’t leave because I stopped loving her – I left because the house, the routine, the compromise, all of it was safer for our autistic boys. I walked so they could stay standing.
By the time I left, I wasn’t angry. I was done. Emotionally packed, heart already moved out. The goodbye wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Calm. Almost peaceful. But not because I wanted it that way – because I’d run out of fight. Out of hope. Out of words.
And still… I stayed too long. I stayed because I believed in us. I believed in forever. I believed in those words – I love you. I held on, hoping something would shift. That we’d both soften, both reach out, both remember what we meant.
But she was hurting too. And one day – disbelief became decision. She said it: either I leave or she does. And I broke. Not visibly, but deep down. And the man she knew – the good husband – became the lost one. Quietly traumatized, blindsided by a story I thought would end differently.
That’s why good husbands leave the way they do – without warning, without sound – because we’ve already left long before the door ever closes.
4. Understanding the Difference Between a Breakup and a Discard
I’ve figured out the difference between what she did to me and what should have happened.
She didn’t break up with me – She simply discarded me.
And that difference is profound. Because the line between a breakup and a discard comes down to one fundamental thing: consent.
A breakup, even when painful, involves both people participating in the process of ending. There’s dialogue. There’s space for questions. There’s recognition of both people’s realities. There’s at least some respect for what was built together.
A discard doesn’t offer that. It’s a one-sided exit that strips the other person of agency. It’s not just someone leaving – it’s someone refusing to acknowledge that the other person even exists in the aftermath.
This isn’t about needing someone’s permission to walk away. It’s about the basic human dignity of recognising a shared reality, rather than abandoning it like it never mattered.
Breakups honour the fact that two people built something – even if it’s time to let it go. Discards act like one person never counted at all.
When you’re discarded, you’re denied the right to understand, to speak, or to find closure. And that’s not just cold—it’s cruel.
So since Sarah chose to casually discard me – without conversation, care, or the decency of shared closure—I’m the one breaking up with her. Not just for what she did, but for how little regard she showed for the weight of what we shared. I’m breaking up with her attitude, her avoidance, and her failure to respect the ending of something real.
5. Staying Soft When Life Falls Apart
There’s a quiet power in the phrase: “Stay soft. Do not let the things that have hurt you turn you into a person you are not.” I read it the other day, sitting alone in a space that used to be ours. It landed like a gut punch wrapped in a hug – familiar, painful, but somehow necessary.
I’m recently separated. We’re no longer under the same roof. The echoes in the hallway are different now, and the rhythms of life I’d grown used to – her laughter in the next room, the clink of mugs in the morning- have gone quiet. And in the middle of all that absence, it’s tempting to shut down. To go numb. To build walls higher than your heart can climb.
But I’m not letting this turn me into someone I’m not. I’ve always been the type to feel things deeply—whether it’s joy, grief, or the strange in-between. And even now, with the dust of our shared life settling around me, I choose to stay soft.
Staying soft isn’t about being naïve or weak. It’s about staying human when everything in you wants to turn robotic. It’s offering kindness without expectation. It’s still caring, even if that care no longer fits neatly into the box marked “husband.” It’s feeling the ache and still letting love, in whatever form it now takes, pass through.
6. Moving Forward
It doesn’t mean my heart wasn’t still there. I chose her every day – even on the days she didn’t choose me. But real love, I’ve learned, can’t be one-sided. It can’t thrive on nostalgia or habit. It has to be mutual, or it breaks you.
So no, I no longer romanticise what we had. It was real. It was raw. But it ended. And in the quiet aftermath, I realised something else:
Sometimes loving someone means letting go of the version of yourself who kept hoping they’d come back.
And that’s what I’ve done. I still believe in love. But next time, if there ever is? It’ll be one where I’m seen, heard, and held – not just useful or convenient. Because love isn’t proven in grand gestures or poetic words. It’s in the choosing. And I’m finally learning to choose me… especially to be me – the version I kept hidden for too long.
These days, I’m learning to live slower, lighter, and more on purpose. With the EOFY sales rolling in, I’m finally buying furniture and appliances that reflect my style – not just what fit into what we had together nor the old house. A new bed, a couch that suits my back and my taste, a kitchen setup I can actually enjoy cooking in.
It’s not just a fresh start. It’s a full reset. One piece at a time, I’m building a home where I belong.
We may not be sharing a home anymore, but the history, the memories, the years – we carry those quietly, even when the path forks. And as I learn how to walk solo again, I remind myself: softness is not surrender. It’s survival.
If you’re walking a similar road, my advice is simple – stay soft. It’s the only way to come out the other side still recognisable to yourself.
If nobody reads this, that’s OK. But is my memory to hold, to remember, to comprehend, and to let go of.
The Entrepreneurial Life of Stephen Mitchell 