I’m processing something tender right now—something that still lives in my chest when I wake up, something that echoes when I replay old conversations I thought I understood at the time.
I was lied to.
Not in a loud, obvious way.
In the kind of way that makes you feel a little crazy when you start to put the pieces together after the fact. The kind that leaves you wondering if maybe you misunderstood, even though deep down, you always knew.
If I had just followed my own advice—if I had listened to my body, slowed down, stayed with myself—I wouldn’t be here.
But I didn’t listen. I wanted to believe what I was being shown. I wanted to believe in the version of the story that felt warm, not the one that was unfolding in the background.
I didn’t realize I was being lied to until much later, and that’s part of what hurts. I betrayed my own intuition before anyone else did. I kept overriding the quiet discomfort in my body. I kept explaining things away.
And I’m not here to punish myself for that. I’m here to see it clearly. To grieve what I ignored. To hold the parts of me that didn’t feel safe enough to speak up, or slow down, or walk away.
And what’s become clear again (because it’s something I keep needing to relearn) is this: I can’t outsource safety.
Not to someone’s words, not to chemistry, not to the fantasy of what I wanted it to be.
I have to build it inside myself.
So this is what I’m practicing right now.
Coming back.
Creating safety in my own body—before, during, and after relationships.
I didn’t always know what safety felt like.
I knew the buzz in my chest and dizzy, light-headed feeling of dysregulation.
I knew the performance of pretending I was fine, chill, easy to love.
And I knew how it felt afterward—empty.
It took me years to realize the kind of safety I was searching for wasn’t something someone else could hand me.
It had to be something I practiced. Inside my own body. Especially in love.
I was always asking myself…
Will they stay? Can I stay? What if I lose them? What if I lose me?
So now, instead of overthinking, I try to notice the feelings before they swallow me.
I come back.
Here’s what that looks like for me.
before
Before I get close to someone, I ask myself:
Can I breathe around them?
Can I feel my own body when they walk in the room, or do I float three feet above it, trying to become the version of myself I think they’ll want?
I don’t force myself to feel chemistry anymore. I wait. I give it time to unfold.
Sometimes I feel nothing at first and then everything, all at once. Sometimes it never lands.
I let it be what it is.
I try not to override my gut. Even if they’re kind. Even if they’re cute. Even if they say all the right things. I notice how I feel after we talk, not just during. My body doesn’t lie.
I journal, yes, of course.
What feels exciting?
What feels off?
Am I trying to prove something? Am I trying to save something?
If it feels like I’m managing more than I’m enjoying—I know that story. I’ve lived it before. And I don’t want it.
during
I am so tender when I like someone.
My nervous system gets loud. My heart gets hopeful and terrified at the same time.
I want to hold hands and run away and text them back and disappear forever, all in the same moment.
So I try and slow it down. Not because I don’t feel it, but because I feel everything.
When things get intense (even in a good way), I put one hand on my heart and one on my belly and remind myself:
You don’t have to leave your body to be loved.
You don’t have to be perfect to be chosen.
You are safe to stay with yourself.
Sometimes I go for a walk without my phone. Sometimes I dance alone in my kitchen with tears in my eyes. Sometimes I don’t respond to the text right away—not to be strategic, but to be honest. I check in with myself first.
I ask:
What do I need right now?
Is this connection soft or sharp?
Do I feel like I’m expanding or disappearing?
I don’t always get it right. But I notice faster now. I come back sooner.
after
When things end, or shift, or fizzle, or explode—
I used to make it all mean something about me.
Now I try to meet the grief where it is. Not to fix it, but to let it move.
I cry without rushing it. I write letters I never send.
I shake. I scream into pillows. I light candles. I delete. I reread.
I talk to the version of me who thought it would last. I tell her thank you for loving. I tell her it’s okay to rest now.
I do what I need to do to come back to my body.
Not because I’m “healing the right way.”
Not because I’m above it all.
But because I want to stay with myself, even in the ache.
I used to think safety came from someone else's promises.
Now I know it’s in the way I hold myself through the not-knowing.
The way I pause before I ever perform.
The way I say, this hurts, and don’t take it back.
The way I sit with myself in silence, without asking to change.
This is how I create safety.
Not by avoiding risk.
But by building the inner soil soft enough to return to—again and again.
Not perfect. Just present.
Not fearless. Just honest.
Still here. Still trying. Still choosing me.
Whether a relationship ends or just shifts, there’s a recalibration. My system often wants to make sense of everything right away. But post-relationship clarity doesn’t come all at once. It arrives slowly, through tending.
My practices after connection ends or changes:
🌿 Gentle Movement
Walking, dancing, stretching, even shaking. I let my body release what my brain is still holding. Not everything needs to be analyzed. Some things just need to move through.
📖 Integration Journaling
What did I learn about myself in this connection?
What patterns showed up that I want to meet with more awareness next time?
What needs of mine were met, and which weren’t?
This isn’t about blaming or fixing. It’s about learning.
💗 Self-Reclamation Rituals
Sometimes I take a bath, clean my space, wear something soft. Sometimes I write myself a letter: Here’s what you stayed true to. Here’s what you now know. I’m proud of you.
Name the Need, Not the Behavior
Instead of saying “they ignored me,” reframe the insight as, “I had a need for communication and care that wasn’t met.” This practice helps separate the story from the deeper truth and clarifies what matters most.
I used to think needing things—comfort, clarity, care—meant I was weak. That if I were more secure, I’d just feel fine no matter what. But needs aren’t flaws. They’re human. They're how our bodies and hearts communicate with us.
We need to feel safe.
We need to feel considered.
We need to feel chosen—not once, but over and over again.
When we grow up in environments where our emotional needs weren’t consistently met, we often carry that pattern into adulthood. We minimize, avoid, or over-accommodate. We try to earn love by asking for less of it.
But the truth is: your needs are not too much. They are information. They are the map back to yourself.
When we suppress our needs long enough, the effects show up in a variety of ways:
Anxiety in relationships
Hypervigilance or constantly assessing a partner’s mood
Difficulty trusting oneself
Low self-worth linked to how others respond
Confusion about whether a relationship is “working”
Many of us stay in these dynamics because we think love means sacrifice. But while compromise is healthy, chronic self-neglect is not. A healthy relationship doesn’t require you to suppress your feelings—it encourages you to share them.
While every person is different, many unmet needs in adult relationships stem from early relational experiences. According to attachment theory and relational psychology, some of the most common unmet needs include:
Emotional Safety – Feeling safe to express oneself without fear of judgment or punishment.
Consistency – Experiencing stability in communication, behavior, and affection.
Recognition – Being seen, acknowledged, and appreciated for who you are.
Affection – Receiving physical and emotional expressions of love.
Clarity – Understanding where you stand in the relationship and what is expected.
🌬️ Affirmations for Coming Back to Yourself After Betrayal
I can tell the truth to myself, even if it hurts.
I am allowed to learn the hard way and still be soft.
It’s not my fault someone lied to me.
It’s okay that I wanted to believe them. That was love, too.
I don’t have to abandon myself just to stay connected.
My body told me the truth. I will listen next time.
I am worthy of love that doesn't require me to guess.
I forgive the version of me that didn’t know yet.
I can stay gentle without losing my standards.
What I lost was real. What I know now is also real.
I can rebuild trust with myself slowly, sweetly, without rushing.
🕯️ Actionable Steps for Creating Safety in Your Own Body After Betrayal
Let your nervous system catch up to what your mind now knows.
You don’t need to intellectualize every red flag. You can feel it instead. Cry, shake, exhale, scream into a pillow, lie on the floor. Let your body metabolize the truth.
Make a list of all the moments you dismissed your knowing.
Not to shame yourself—but to honor the places you knew, and now will not ignore. You’re learning. That’s holy.
Unplug from their story.
Block them. Archive the texts. Release the urge to make them understand. This part is just for you now. Reclamation doesn’t need an audience.
Speak aloud: “I know what I know.”
Say it with your hands on your heart or your thighs or the side of your neck. Touch helps. The body believes your voice and touch.
Create a ritual of closure that centers you.
Write a letter to the version of yourself who stayed. Burn it. Bury it. Read it under the moon. You get to choose what ends. You get to say what was real.
Let slowness be your boundary.
You don’t have to rush into trusting again. Or forgiving. Or dating. Or explaining. Let time do its quiet repair work.
Do something daily that reminds you you’re not broken.
A silly playlist. A favorite meal. A walk. You’re not in ruins—you’re in process.
Remind yourself: The red flags were not a challenge.
You do not need to prove you can love someone through their dishonesty. You do not need to stay where your clarity costs too much.
Write down what safe love will feel like next time.
Not what it will look like. Not who they’ll be. But what it will feel like in your body: calm. soft. steady. real.
Whisper this if you forget: I am someone worth telling the truth to.
And I will always, always tell the truth to myself first.
—
Sometimes the betrayal doesn’t hit all at once.
It arrives in waves.
It shows up in the tightening of your jaw when you replay the memory.
In the dream you wake from too fast.
In the way you flinch when someone says, “Just trust me.”
It’s okay if it took you a while to see what was happening.
It’s okay if you wanted to believe them.
It’s okay if you’re still trying to reconcile how someone could hold you one day and deceive you the next.
This is not your failure. This is your nervous system trying to protect you.
And it doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It means you’re learning how to trust yourself more.
It means you’re coming home.
If this piece held you—if it mirrored something you haven’t been able to name—
I’d love for you to subscribe because here I write tender truths about love, healing, self-abandonment, and coming back to center.
You’re also gently invited to share this with someone who might be sifting through silence or confusion. A friend, a lover, a past self. You never know who’s holding the same pain.
And if you need a place to say the thing out loud,
if you’re sitting with the aftershock and don’t want to sort it alone—
I offer free 1:1 Clarity Sessions.
No fixing. No pressure. Just space for you to feel what you’re feeling, and maybe take a deep breath again.
Message me if you want one. I’d be honored to hold space for you.
You’re not too late. You’re not too much.
You’re just remembering what it feels like to trust yourself.
I'm with you.
—K8
xoxo until further notice celebrate everything…
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