The holidays had given me the space I needed. It was quiet—so much quieter than the noise inside my head. I had spent weeks trying to understand why I was so terrified of commitment, why I ran every time something serious began to form. My heart ached with the unanswered questions, and after much hesitation, I dialed the number for an online therapist.
The first few sessions felt awkward, but I stuck with it. Slowly, I began to dig deeper, searching for the root of my fear. Each conversation with my therapist peeled back a layer of myself I had buried for so long. And then one day, it hit me. The truth, as painful as it was.
I remembered a conversation I overheard when I was six. My aunties were gossiping—talking about my mom, about the sacrifices she made for me. "She had it all, but she chose to settle. She chose you over her dreams," they had said. I hadn't understood it back then, but those words had stayed with me. They had shaped my view of relationships ever since.
I grew up thinking that love meant giving up parts of yourself. That commitment meant losing your identity. I thought, if my mom could give up everything—her career, her dreams—for love, then what would I have to give up? The thought terrified me. I was convinced that any relationship would cost me who I was, and I wasn't ready to pay that price.
As I dug deeper, I learned the full story—my mom's story. My mom had been a rising star in her sport when she met my father. But he didn't want the spotlight, didn't want to be with someone whose career would overshadow his own. So, out of love for him, she agreed to take a step back. But soon enough, resentment grew. My father didn't like her success. He couldn't stand it. He demanded that she quit her career, leave everything behind.
My mom refused, but then she found out she was pregnant with me. And everything changed. She chose to stay with him, even though I knew, deep down, she didn't want to. She had the strength to raise me alone, but she believed every child deserved a happy, complete family. She went back to him, even though it meant putting her dreams on hold.
But her sacrifice didn't change anything. My father started cheating. He lied. He broke her heart over and over again. I never saw it, but I could feel it in the way she walked, the way she held herself together. And yet, she stayed. She convinced herself that he might not be the perfect partner, but he would be a good father.
Then everything fell apart. My father's career failed, and soon he turned to alcohol and drugs. His emotional abuse became unbearable, and for years, my mom took it. She took it because she loved him, and because I needed him. But that day—that day—when I saw him hit her, everything changed. I rushed to stop him, but he hit me instead. I fainted.
When I woke up, my mom was crying, but my father was apologizing, saying it was a mistake. He begged her to forgive him, and somehow, she did. I wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe him. But I could see the truth. He never changed. The abuse grew worse.
And one night, my mom had enough. She took me, and we ran. I didn't know it then, but that was the last time I would ever see him. He disappeared from our lives, and I never even saw his face again. He was a ghost, nothing more than a shadow in the corners of my memories.
Therapy helped me piece it all together. I wasn't just running from relationships—I was running from my past. I feared love because I was afraid I would end up like my mom—sacrificing my identity for the sake of someone else. I had convinced myself that every man would hurt me the way my father hurt my mother. But that wasn't the truth. My mom wasn't me. I didn't have to repeat her mistakes.
I couldn't live in fear any longer. I had to stop running. I had to open my heart to the possibility of love, without fearing that it would destroy me.
I had decided to take a gap year and build myself professionally before pursuing my master's degree. So, I had applied for jobs. When I got the offer from another town, I felt a sense of freedom that I hadn't experienced in years. It was the fresh start I needed.
I shared the news with my mom, and we celebrated. She was proud of me, so proud. But there was something in her eyes—a quiet sadness, like she knew this was it. The moment I had been preparing for, the moment when I would step into the world on my own.
As we stood in the doorway, her arms around me, she whispered, "Go. Be happy. You've worked hard for this, Kim. Don't let anything hold you back."
Her words stayed with me as I drove away, heading to a new town, ready for what life had in store for me. I was no longer afraid. I had freed myself from the weight of the past, from the fear of commitment, and from the idea that every love would be like the one my mom had endured.
I was ready to meet him—the one who would show me that love didn't have to come with sacrifice, that it didn't mean losing myself. I was ready to build something real.
I wasn't going to run. Not again!