For years, I believed I had failed at love. I had given everything I had to a relationship that made me miserable, convinced that if I could just become the right woman, I could finally earn the love I needed.

I kept making myself smaller, sacrificing my happiness, and trying harder. Walking away felt like admitting I wasn’t good enough—and that all those years of effort had been wasted.

But I had confused perseverance with self-abandonment.

I couldn’t see that someone else’s choices were not grades on my worth, and no amount of perfection could make another person participate in building a healthy relationship.

I thought leaving meant I had lost.

But the greatest victory was waiting on the other side.

I didn’t win his love.

I won back my life.

And I didn’t even know that was the prize.

I spent years wondering why I had to carry everything alone without realizing I was standing at the door of my own life checking everyone’s credentials before I’d let them help carry a box. Nobody was qualified—because the qualification was: Do it exactly like Jasmine. And there was already a Jasmine. She was exhausted.

I used to think I wanted to be the most talented person in the room because I was competitive. The deeper truth was harder to admit: ordinary me didn’t always feel safe enough. Somewhere along the way, I learned to believe that if I could become useful enough, impressive enough, hardworking enough, creative enough, maybe I would become harder to leave. But love was never supposed to be a performance review. I am learning that I don’t have to become extraordinary to be worthy of ordinary love.