I Thought I’d Still Be Single

There’s something funny about believing you’ll never fall again… only to trip, twice, three times, maybe more ... and still get up, still open the door, still try.

When my first marriage officially ended, I remember the exact moment. Not the drama of it. Not some symbolic closure. Just a call. A contract. A final “yes” that clicked the door shut on three years of trying. That same night, I watched Pacific Rim with the weirdest sense of peace. Like something heavy had been lifted off of me. Not joy. Not sadness. Just lightness. Like a chapter had ended, and I didn’t have to reread it.

For the first time in years, I was free. And for the first time in my life… I was divorced.

I didn’t expect that. I genuinely didn’t think that could happen to me. I thought I’d fight to the bitter end, live miserably if I had to ... anything but failure. But it ended. And deep down, I knew I wasn’t the one who let go. That was her. All I did was stop clinging.

What followed was strange. I felt free, but also… defeated. I wasn’t the guy who got divorced. That wasn’t supposed to be my story. I had fought so hard for that relationship ... but when I looked back, I realized I had also fought hard against myself.

And that wasn’t even the first time she’d broken my heart.

Years before, we had been something ... young, hopeful, and figuring it out in the way people do when they think love can survive anything. I was on the rise. Popular. Performing. And instead of cheating, I chose to step back. Asked for space when she got her first job, and had moved to a new city… It was my chance to be a good guy, and be honest... But then she got engaged three months later. That broke something in me. I spiraled. Not from bitterness ... but from regret.

It was like I cracked in two. First came the silence. Then came the chaos. I dropped out of school, tried on different versions of myself like outfits and costumes that didn’t quite fit. One minute rebellious, the next extreme oposite and religious. I looked in the mirror one day and didn’t recognize who was staring back. I actually said it out loud: “What the hell are you doing to yourself?”

That was the wake-up.

It took years to rebuild. But fate had other plans and we eventually by accident reconnected, it felt like a movie plot twist… until it didn’t. The second time around wasn’t a love story. It was a lesson.

And still ... I didn’t close the door.

People think heartbreak teaches you not to trust. For me, it taught me that survival isn’t the same as living. I learned how to hold someone close again. I learned how to lose with grace. I learned that not everything that ends was a mistake… some things were just meant to be a chapter, not a whole book.

So no ... I didn’t think I’d be where I am now. I thought I’d still be alone and single. By choice. By caution. By a fear that maybe love just wasn’t made for people like me.

But then again, I’ve been wrong before.

And even if it doesn’t work out, even if it ends in heartbreak again… I’d rather feel something real than live in fear of the fall.

Because here’s the truth: I don’t regret trying.

I only regret the times I stayed too long in the wrong version of myself… afraid that no one would love the real one.