A Piece of Me I’ll Never Get Back (And That’s Okay)

There are moments in life where you gamble everything on a feeling. You don’t think about the logistics, the risk, or how badly it could hurt if it falls apart—you just leap. And when I leapt, I leapt big. The kind of big that changes you.

This was the first time I ever stepped out of my comfort zone for a man. And yes, you’re reading this correctly—it was over an ocean. Yeah, I was adding on to my girl’s trip, but let’s be clear: it was still over a fucking ocean. And when I booked that ticket, I thought I was booking more than a flight. I thought I was booking my forever.

I left America, I left Paris, I left myself wide open, thinking maybe, just maybe, this was it. The kind of love people write about, the kind you swear only exists in movies. That whole soulmate thing you grow up believing in. That thing that feels written in the stars, even when the stars are just throwing shade.

And when we were together, it really did feel like magic. The kind of magic that makes you question yourself: is this real or am I dreaming? Walking side by side, laughing at nothing, sharing moments that felt stolen out of time—it was intoxicating. And I wanted to believe in it. Badly.

But the cracks always show. First, it was the little things. The inconsistency. The “I’ll text you at this time and no other” pattern. The way I always had to lead the relationship—plan the trip, start the conversations, pull us forward. The same man who bragged about me to his friends and family, who painted me as this trophy he couldn’t wait to show off, was also the one who could turn around and tell me I was “too much.”

Too much? Let me tell you something. For the right man, my too much is never too much.

And here’s the painful truth: I thought I was being chosen. But I wasn’t being chosen—I was being managed. A placeholder in his schedule. Enough to brag about, not enough to prioritize. He could say “I love you” first, but when I said it back, he just stared at me like the words fell flat. He told me to come for Christmas, then treated me like I was asking for too much when I wanted consistency. That’s the thing about karmic love—it sells you a fairytale, then hands you a receipt.

Let me set the stage for the moment everything shifted—the night I started to actually find my self-respect again. Our last night in London, when we should’ve been out celebrating, me and my best friend ended up in our hotel room falling apart. We were too upset to even figure out food. We argued over whether to drown our feelings in a bottle of Hennessy or three bottles of wine. We settled on a bottle of wine each. Ordered our favorite pizza—pepperoni and jalapeños with extra garlic sauce. And I said, you know what the best movie is for us to cry to right now? A Star Is Born.

So that’s what we did. We ate, we drank, we cried, we laughed, we danced—and then we picked each other up. Because that’s what girls do. That’s why having your coven—the women who will sit with you in the dark and remind you who you are—is everything. And I can’t even begin to thank her for being the one who reminded me that night how strong of a woman I am.

The next morning, as we were on our way to the airport, I checked my phone one last time before I walked in. Nothing. And as I stood there, I kept replaying us—riding bikes together, drinking wine, dancing around like kids having our own private party. Precious moments that felt so alive then, already fading into distant memories. And that’s when I knew: as my final act of love, I had to walk away. Because sometimes the most loving thing you can do is let go.

And for the first time, I didn’t fight back. I didn’t clap back, I didn’t humble him, I didn’t send the angry texts I drafted over and over again in my head. I just… let him go. Because growing up is realizing that not everything needs a reaction. Not everyone deserves your attention. Not everyone deserves your precious energy.

The irony is that I’d already lived through dishonesty before—the kind that shakes you to your core and makes you question everything. That was the hardest entanglement of my life. And after surviving that, I still had hope. Hope that maybe love could be different, softer, more real. And that’s what gave me the courage to step out of my comfort zone again. That’s what carried me across the ocean. That’s what led me to this chapter. To him.

And yes, it hurt. What hurt the most wasn’t even the loss itself—it was the whiplash. The feeling of finally being seen and accepted, only to be told I was “too much” the moment things got real. But what does that actually say? To me, it says I’m someone who, after being broken time and time again, after turning cold and closed off, still had the courage to open myself up. Still had the guts to risk it all for love.

And one person’s inability to handle that? It doesn’t define me. It doesn’t define what’s next. It just showed me this wasn’t soulmate love. It was karmic love. The kind that drags you through the fire just to show you what burns. The kind that says: here’s your lesson, now go do better.

So here’s how I released it. I sent one last song as my goodbye—“Piece of Me” by Lady Wray. Because that’s all he’ll ever have. A piece. Never the whole.

And the truth is, he didn’t destroy me—he redirected me. Toward my power, toward my softness, toward my own becoming. Toward the woman who still has hope. Not the naïve kind—the grounded kind. The kind that says: I can be cracked open, brought to my knees, and I’ll still get up taller. I can risk love again, and I’ll risk it as myself. Unapologetic. Tender. Too much, but never enough for the wrong man.

Because the right man? He’ll know my too much is exactly what makes me unforgettable.

Sometimes love is a person. Sometimes love is the lesson. Either way, I’m grateful I had the courage to learn. Xo, Storm.