One particularly harmful idea carried by our cultural narrative is that you need to find someone who will love you. Imagine if we believed this about any other basic need: food, water, oxygen. If you needed another person to provide you with those, you’d be considered dependent—if not disabled. Yet we so willingly put ourselves in this state with love.

Some people engage in retail therapy, buying new things to make themselves feel more secure, and others engage in knowledge therapy, amassing new ideas to make themselves feel like they know something. We consume for comfort. We rely on certainty to shield us from the pain of confusion. The truth is staggering, colossal, unfathomable, so we cling to our bite-sized lies. We organize knowledge into bulleted lists and line graphs while the wisdom of the present moment sits patiently at the doors of our perception.

He who believes in soul mates never ceases to doubt if his current partner is, truly, “The One.” As a result, the great irony emerges: those who believe in soul mates are much less likely to actually find one.

The sooner we heal our traumas, the sooner we liberate ourselves from the people who hurt us. By hating them, we hold onto them. We cannot heal.

It burns, I know. It burns now, now that the story is over, now that the daybreak is liquid, now that my knees don't creak anymore and the leaves are blowing and the highway is humming, and a few extra pounds is not a terminal diagnosis. It burns in me too healing me but the ache is not for you. It's for my passion. That used to be your name. And it's sad, really. The sting of too little too late.