Emotionally Unheld

A reflection on vulnerability, mental unraveling, and the ache of feeling spiritually close but emotionally alone

There was a connection once.

It lasted years, without ever truly beginning.

Built quietly through phone calls, long silences, and occasional reappearances that somehow always felt significant.

It wasn’t romantic — until it was. And even then, it never fully claimed the space that love usually takes up.

We were long-distance, long-winded, long-waiting.

What I once considered deep care was, in hindsight, uneven emotional labor.

He had thoughts. I had space for them.

He had stories. I stayed up to listen.

He had pain. I absorbed it.

My own, I rationed. Protected. Downplayed.

I’ve thought a lot about why I did that.

Part of it may have been tied to faith — the idea that love is patient, selfless, redemptive.

Another part? That emotional effort was the price of proving I was worthy of something lasting.

I kept trying to be steady enough for both of us.

I don’t regret what I felt.

But I do recognize now how much of it was built on chemistry without compatibility,

conversation without accountability, and care without consistency.

It’s a quiet kind of heartbreak when someone shows up in flashes — just enough to keep you hopeful, never enough to feel safe.

At one point, I prepared my life for us.

I made space — practically, emotionally, even financially — in ways I now understand were premature.

And then everything caught up to me.

When I reached my breaking point, I wasn’t afraid.

My mind had already begun protecting itself in ways I couldn’t control.

And in that space, I waited for him. Not just to visit, but to show up — emotionally, fully.

To meet me in the vulnerability he once encouraged.

Because that’s what he had done — asked for softness, for depth, for truth.

And I gave it.

Only to realize too late that intimacy had been drawn out of me, but never truly held.

Even in crisis, I longed for him to witness what he’d helped unlock.

That told me everything: I hadn’t simply fallen too deep — I had been pulled there, gently, then left.

That realization taught me more than the relationship ever could.

He didn’t plan to be harmful. But he benefitted from my softness without ever protecting it.

And I wasn’t naive. Just overextended.

We were not aligned — emotionally, spiritually, practically.

And when it mattered most, he wasn’t there.

Not because he didn’t care, but because he wasn’t capable of meeting the moment.

I was heartbroken.

When he asked how I felt, I said one word: disappointed.

It was the truest thing I could offer. I wasn’t angry — just emptied.

There were promises, too — small ones, like paybacks that never came.

I eventually blocked him on everything, even Cash App.

Not out of pettiness, but because I no longer wanted anything returned.

What I needed couldn’t be refunded.

Some debts are spiritual. Some are emotional. Some are just lessons with late fees.

Looking back, what I felt wasn’t love — it was a trauma bond dressed as devotion, and limerence disguised as clarity.

I clung to chemistry because it felt familiar.

Mistook inconsistency for depth.

And poured from a cup I was secretly hoping he’d notice was empty.

I’ve since learned that vulnerability isn’t the mistake — misplacing it is.

And attachment isn’t a sign of alignment — it’s often a reaction to uncertainty.

Even now, I’m still untangling the difference between love and longing, support and saviorhood, devotion and depletion.

There was no betrayal. No blowout.

Just a slow awareness that I had been emotionally unheld.

And that was enough. That’s all it ever needed to be.