Heartfelt Chronicles: Love Is Not Measured by Endurance, but by Freedom

I knew it was never love because I always felt trapped.

Not in the dramatic, slammed-doors kind of way—but in the quiet, suffocating way no one warns you about. The kind of trapped that sneaks up on you while everything looks “fine” from the outside. The kind where your body knows the truth long before your heart is ready to admit it.

Love, they say, is about compromise. About staying. About working through discomfort.

But no one talks about what happens when love feels like a cage.

I remember feeling like I couldn’t breathe—almost as though my partner was taking all the oxygen out of the room. Every conversation felt heavy. Every expectation felt like a hand resting just a little too firmly on my chest. I wasn’t being harmed, but I was being contained. And containment, I learned, can be just as dangerous.

Let’s not even talk about the intimate moments.I didn’t need candles or music—I needed an oxygen tank.

That’s how I felt.

There is a particular loneliness that comes from being with someone who loves you but doesn’t leave you wild. Atticus wrote it perfectly: “Love her, but leave her wild.” I wasn’t wild anymore. I was careful. Measured. Always adjusting myself to fit the shape of someone else’s comfort.

And love should never require you to edit your breath.

I stayed longer than I should have because I was taught that endurance meant depth. That feeling caged was just part of commitment. That freedom was something you sacrificed in exchange for being chosen.

But love is not measured by how much you can endure.It is measured by how free you feel when you receive it.

I wasn’t free. I was shrinking. My laughter was quieter. My intuition was constantly negotiating with my fear of leaving. My body was always tense, bracing for the next emotional weight I’d have to carry.

That’s when I understood something radical: love that costs you your freedom is not love—it’s possession dressed up as devotion.

Real love doesn’t suffocate.It doesn’t monitor your light.It doesn’t make your chest tighten or your spirit pace the room looking for exits.

Real love feels like expansion.Like breathing deeply without asking permission.Like being adored without being owned.

Walking away wasn’t a failure of love.It was an act of self-rescue.

Because the moment I chose myself, I could breathe again.

And that’s how I knew—I had never been in love.