O is for Ownership

(…and Openness. And Open-mindedness.)

 

She had taken the brave step. She left.

The world clapped for her when she finally emerged from the fog of indecision and into something new. People admired her courage, praised her strength, celebrated her return to herself. But what the world rarely talks about is what comes after the leaving. That quiet stretch where doubt lingers. Where you wonder if you’ll ever feel truly desired again. If you’ll ever trust yourself to choose well.

Because beginnings — real beginnings — are terrifying. Especially when they arrive after the kind of ending that shook the ground beneath you.

She didn’t find love on the other side of healing.

She found him in the liminal space.

Not when she was fully ready. Not when she had tied every loose end of grief with a satin bow. But in that murky, beautiful mess where she was still patching herself back together. That in-between where she was learning to make peace with her reflection again — and relearning the sound of her own laughter.

He showed up not to rescue her but to witness her.

He didn’t ask for her best self. He was drawn to her honest self.

And yet — even in this unexpected connection — her fears came rushing back, cloaked in logic, dressed as discernment.

On date three, she panicked because everything felt… good. Too good.

Was he too thoughtful? Too available? Was that a red flag in disguise? Or had her past sharpened her vision so much she was now seeing danger where there was only care?

This is what no one prepares you for:

The difference between being careful and being afraid.

She wanted to be open but not exposed.

Available, but not vulnerable.

Soft, but still in control.

And so she analysed it all:

• How quickly he texted back.
• What he ordered from the menu.
• The way he spoke about his ex.
• Whether he reached for her hand or waited for her lead.
• The pauses. The eye contact. The timing of his compliments.

She had become fluent in micro-decoding — a language born from past betrayals.

But ownership meant something different now.

It wasn’t about controlling outcomes or preventing pain.

It was about being honest with herself. Owning her triggers. Her pace. Her needs. Her hopes.

She no longer needed to play by the unspoken rules of modern dating. The three-date milestones. The flirting-but-not-too-much dynamic. The dance of appearing interested while pretending not to be invested. That didn’t serve her anymore.

Instead, she allowed herself to ask the questions that mattered:

Does this feel peaceful?

Does this feel mutual?

Does this feel like it’s rooted in reality, not fantasy?

But even as she leaned into the budding connection, she wrestled with the fear of being wrong again.

Because society forgives one failed marriage.

But two? Now, you’re the problem. Now, you’re “difficult.” Now, you’re a cautionary tale.

And so she held herself back — not because he gave her reason to, but because happiness itself felt suspicious.

Could she trust joy? Or was it just a calm before the next heartbreak?

She had to own that fear, too. To name it. To sit with it.

And then — slowly — to release it.

Because ownership isn’t just about taking responsibility for your past.

It’s about choosing not to let it write your future.

It’s about not punishing the present for the sins of those who came before.

And openness? It’s allowing yourself to be surprised.

It’s letting go of the fantasy that healing must be complete before love arrives.

It’s recognising that sometimes, your intuition is whispering the truth.

And sometimes, it’s just your trauma in a louder voice.

Open-mindedness is what gave her the courage to stay curious instead of critical.

To entertain the idea that maybe — just maybe — this could be different.

That God’s design for partnership wasn’t a punishment but a gift.

That intimacy wasn’t a transaction but a meeting of spirits.

That she could desire love without negotiating her soul.

She would no longer sell her softness for scraps of connection.

She would no longer dim her light to be digestible.

She would no longer let logic kill the magic.

This was her #Unshakable truth:

She could be careful and open.

Discerning and hopeful.

Healing and worthy of being loved well.

She owns her journey.

She owns her joy.

And she opens herself to the possibility that maybe, this time, love might just stay.

What part of your story are you still afraid to own?

Where have you closed the door too tightly on something soft, something sacred, something real?

It’s okay to let the light back in.

Even just a little crack.

‘See’ you next week.