Four and a half years ago, I wrote in my journal:
“I am done with the disrespect.”

A month later, I asked my fiancé to move out. Four months after that, we got back together.
Two months later, I married him. And it took another three years before I finally walked away for good.

I share this because it captures something most people don’t understand: we don’t stay—or go back—because we’re weak. We do so
because hope can be blinding.