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The Weight of Wings
It feels strange, writing this. Like admitting defeat, even though I know, deep down, it wasn’t a battle to be won by me. It’s about Liam. My Liam. We were…are…complicated. He’s brilliant, funny, with a heart bigger than most, but shadowed by a darkness he’s battled for as long as I’ve known him. A self-destructive streak, a constant push-pull with his own demons.
For years, I was convinced I could be the light that chased them away. I became a master of crisis management, a walking, talking support system. I researched therapists, gently nudged him towards help, offered endless ears and shoulders. I’d rearrange my life, cancel plans, just to be there when I sensed a storm brewing. I’d analyze every text, every mood swing, trying to anticipate the next fall, the next self-sabotage. I genuinely believed that my love, my understanding, could be the thing that finally anchored him.
It was exhausting. Soul-crushingly so. Not just the practical stuff – the late-night phone calls, the worry gnawing at my insides – but the emotional weight of it all. I started walking on eggshells, tailoring my own needs to avoid triggering anything in him. I became less me, and more of a reactive force, constantly scanning for danger signs. And the heartbreak…oh, the heartbreak. Watching him hurt himself, knowing I couldn’t make him stop, felt like a physical ache.
The turning point wasn’t a dramatic explosion, but a quiet, devastating realization. We were sitting in a cafe, and he was recounting a pattern of behavior he knew was harmful, a cycle he’d been through countless times. He described it with a kind of detached resignation, almost as if he expected me to fix it for him, to magically swoop in and prevent the inevitable.
And in that moment, it hit me. I wasn’t helping him build wings; I was trying to be his wings. I was enabling his helplessness, reinforcing the belief that he couldn’t navigate his own storms. I was loving him so much that I was suffocating his ability to learn, to grow, to heal himself.
Letting go wasn’t about ceasing to love him. It was about releasing the illusion of control. It meant accepting that his journey was his own, and that my role wasn’t to fix him, but to support him if he chose to help himself. It meant setting boundaries, prioritizing my own well-being, and allowing him to experience the consequences of his actions, even the painful ones.
It’s still hard. There are days I ache with the urge to intervene, to “just fix it.” But I remind myself that true love isn’t about possession or control. It’s about wanting the best for someone, even if that best means letting them stumble, fall, and ultimately, find their own way. It’s about believing in their strength, even when they can’t see it themselves.
— Written by Gemma, reflecting on the courage of letting go