About the Time I Broke Up with My Boyfriend

Once upon a time, at the deeply unhinged age of 21, I met a man.

He was charming. Smart. Funny in a “dad joke” kind of way. He had a disturbingly unkept beard.
Six years older. Settled. Steady.
We fell hard.

So hard, in fact, that I moved cities to be with him.
Which sounds romantic until you realize I’d already lived abroad, had dreams of traveling again, and was suddenly giving up all of that to live a very cozy, extremely local, “maybe I’ll get a blender for my birthday” kind of life. BARF.

Two years in — he proposed.

And I said no.

Not in a dramatic, runaway-bride way. Just in a soft, sad, very-real kind of way.
Because deep down, I knew that’s not what I wanted. And I was 23, he was 28…we were at different stages of our lives where my idea of fun was tequila shots and his? Well, I don’t even know.

He wanted kids. I wanted plane tickets.
He wanted roots. I wanted movement.
He wanted a wife. I wanted… options.

But I stayed.
For five years.
Because it was comfortable. Because he was a good person. Because I loved him and, unlike the men that would come hereafter, he loved me. Because saying “no” to the life someone is offering you is terrifying — even when you know it’s not your life.

And then, Italy happened.

A quick trip. Just a little getaway.
Some wine. Some pasta. Some friends. Some very good looking guys. And some dramatically timed emotional clarity.

I came home tanned, in love (with life), and done (waiting).

I told him:

“I’m moving to Spain.”
“You’re invited.”
“But I’m going either way.”

And he didn’t come.
He didn’t even try to.
Because his dream life was here — and mine wasn’t.

So I left.

And then Spain. Oh, Spain. My home. My country. My heart.

I danced in clubs where no one knew my name.
I got lost, then found, then lost again.
I made bad decisions and beautiful memories.
I flirted. I healed. I grew.
I lived. I lived a life I was craving.

And all the while, I grieved a little — not just the relationship, but the younger version of me who thought she could maybe make it work.

Meanwhile, back home, he met someone. Not just someone. His wife and mother of his children. His person.

They are — and I say this with no sarcasm — perfect together.

We’re friends now. It’s weird and beautiful and wholesome and a little too mature for my taste, but here we are.

Sometimes life isn’t about villains and victims.
Sometimes it’s just two good people, walking in different directions.

I loved him.
But I loved me more.
And I had to choose myself — even when it hurt.

Because the version of me that stayed would’ve slowly disappeared.

I was 26. And tired of waiting.
Waiting for someone to change. To move. To want more.
So instead, I became the one who wanted more — and I gave it to myself.

TL:DR? I said no to the ring, no to the kids, and yes to a one-way ticket to Spain.

10/10, no notes. ICONIC. And my passport? Has not seen a day of peace since the day I boarded that flight in 2015.