Dear Davina:

You’re very welcome.

Reading your response, I was struck by how much clarity and emotional honesty you’re already holding—even in the middle of uncertainty. You’re not running from the truth—you’re circling it, slowly and bravely. That matters.

I think it’s wonderful that you and your partner are considering couples therapy. That step alone speaks volumes about the care and seriousness with which you’re both approaching your future.

In the meantime, something you might find helpful is this: try journaling (privately or even here)—not the polished, reflective kind, but something freer, looser. Let your thoughts spill. Set a timer and describe—without judgment—the kind of relationship that would truly thrill you. Not necessarily with a real person. Just let your imagination go.

What does that kind of love feel like in your body? What kinds of conversations, tensions, moments of passion or uncertainty show up? Is there chaos? Silence? Hunger? Laughter?

Let it pour out unfiltered—no editing, no evaluating. Just write as if no one will ever read it but your own curiosity.

You don’t need to figure it all out at once. This isn’t about rushing to a decision—it’s about becoming someone who sees herself clearly, so that the decision, when it comes, feels like home instead of a coin toss.

If you do feel like sharing anything that comes up in the process—whether poetic, messy, angry, tender, confused, or all of the above—I’ll meet it with care.

With warmth, Anita 🕊️

Dear Davina:

Thank you for sharing something so personal. You wrote with such honesty, and it’s clear you’ve spent time trying to understand not just your relationship—but yourself.

There’s something incredibly brave about asking, “Why do I feel this way when nothing is wrong?” Because what you have sounds beautiful: a partner who’s loving, generous, emotionally available, and willing to grow with you. It makes sense that the doubt feels confusing—even guilt-inducing. But doubt doesn’t always mean something’s broken. Sometimes it’s a sign that you’re listening—not to a problem, but to a question that’s still taking shape inside you.

This duality—wanting the emotional thrill vs. needing deep, steady love—is something both your therapists have touched on. The dilemma, as I see it: the fear of choosing safety and later mourning the absence of passion, or worse—choosing passion and realizing too late that you’ve let go of a truly good man.

You’re not ungrateful or cold-hearted. You may simply still be in the process of rewiring what love feels like. After surviving toxic relationships where love came with drama or instability, it’s natural that something calm—even healthy—might feel unfamiliar. Less “exciting,” maybe. Less known. And that unfamiliarity can feel like something’s missing, even when your partner is doing everything “right.”

What I hear beneath it all is your integrity. The fact that you’re reflecting before acting—the way you’re trying to spare him pain, even as you hold your own confusion—tells me how deeply you care. About him, and about the kind of life you want to live with honesty.

This is what I posted to Elle (the original poster of this thread) back on January 27, 2016: “My advice is for you to explore and get an understanding of what happened and what is going on with you first. It will not be fair for him that you follow your current feelings for him when you don’t understand what is going on.”

And so—nine and a half years later—I offer the same advice to you: take time to gently explore what’s happening within you. I wonder… growing up, was one of your parents—or both—emotionally distant or critical? Did a quiet hope begin in your heart back then, a passion to one day turn an emotionally unavailable person into someone loving?

With warmth and respect, Anita

Dear J:

What I see in your story is someone with a very open heart—someone who’s been hurt before and now carries that hurt like armor. You were trying to protect yourself. When things felt uncertain or unclear, you pulled away—not because you didn’t care, but because you cared so much that staying began to feel dangerous. The idea of staying, only to be left unexpectedly, was too threatening. So, you left first.

To protect yourself from the powerlessness of being abandoned, you used the power you did have in the moment—and ended it on your terms.

Looking at you both through the lens of protectors: Your protector said: “Leave first so you won’t be left.” His protector said: “Stay in control so you won’t be hurt.”

He seemed to lead with intellect, structure, and emotional distance. When things got tender—when you spoke from wonder, intuition, or need—he often shifted the conversation back into logic. That was his version of control. It came through in corrections, debates, emotional detachment, or vague plans.

If emotional openness had brought him pain in the past, it’s possible he learned to stay rational, self-contained, and even critical—because feelings are messy, and messy can feel unsafe. That’s not cruelty. It’s self-protection. It’s armor.

In the end, it wasn’t your hearts that met. It was your defenses, your protectors.

But a loving relationship between you could have been possible—if you’d met each other with more awareness and care. It would’ve required both of you to soften your protectors and show up in new ways.

On his part: — Instead of “No, you don’t understand!” or dismissing your ideas, he might have said: “That’s interesting—can you tell me more about what that means to you?” — When you expressed the need for structure, he could have responded: “It’s hard for me to plan ahead, but I care about how this affects you. Let’s find something that works for both of us.” — He might have named his edges by saying: “Sometimes I get sharp when I feel out of control. I’m trying to get better at that.”

On your part: — Instead of pulling away in fear, you might have said: “I feel myself getting scared that I’m not enough for you. When I’m afraid, I sometimes shut down. I don’t want to do that here.” — Rather than overstating your beliefs to assert your worth, you could have gently said: “I love seeing magic in the world. I know not everyone does, but I’d like to share that part of me without having to defend it.” — You might have taken intimacy more slowly—not as a rejection, but as a way to build trust at a pace that felt safe for both of you.

Together, you could have learned to say things like: “I think one of my protectors just showed up.” Or: “Can we pause? I want to connect, not react.” You could have shifted from debating who’s right to asking: “How can I show you I’m here?”

If you had stayed open—to inquiry without shrinking, and he to wonder without retreating—you might have found a middle ground of respect and warmth.

I share all this not to dwell in regret, but to offer you something restorative—whether for a future with him, or more importantly, for a future with someone else who can truly meet you. With presence. With patience. With the awe you deserve.

With warmth and deep respect, Anita

Hi J:

Thank you for sharing your story with such honesty—it’s clear that you’re someone who feels deeply and reflects with care. What you’ve been carrying isn’t just about a breakup. It’s about the ache of not being fully seen, the fear of being too much and not enough at the same time, and the grief of wondering whether a possible connection was lost or never truly safe to begin with.

From what you described, it sounds like there was something real between you—moments of ease, laughter, attraction, and resonance. You saw a softness in him that felt familiar, maybe even sacred. And you were brave enough to show your own softness, your imagination, your quirky, luminous heart.

But there were also moments where the connection didn’t feel like safe ground. His critiques, his dismissiveness, his lack of flexibility or warmth around the things that light you up—those aren’t small things. They chip away at the part of you that wants to feel accepted without needing to edit or defend herself.

It’s so understandable to wonder if you made a mistake. Regret is how anxious hearts often cope with ambiguity—when a door closes and the pain rushes in, it’s easy to believe that staying would’ve spared you the ache.

But often, the ache was already there—in the subtle disconnection, the feeling of not being “gotten,” the trying too hard to be enough.

You didn’t lose a perfect relationship. You stepped away from one that held beauty and imbalance. And maybe the grief you feel now is really a longing to be held by someone who meets you with curiosity, not correction. Someone who honors your dreaminess instead of dismissing it. Someone who makes you feel safe enough to stay.

You deserve that, J.

He may think of you. He may not. But what really matters is this: you are not a fool for loving. You are not a failure for trying. You are growing in your knowing of yourself—and that knowing is a compass. Trust it. Trust you. You are learning not to flee or chase, but to stay. For yourself.

And that’s the start of everything.

🌙🕊️ With warmth, Anita