I still don’t know how it started exactly—a series of texts? A look across the room? A smile I mistook for something deeper? All I know is that I was suddenly in it. A relationship that felt like Squid Game levels of intensity, only this wasn’t a Netflix binge where I could sit back, eat my popcorn, and cheer on a fictional protagonist. No, this time I was the protagonist. And folks, I was not winning.

They say you don’t truly know yourself until you’ve been tested. Well, I got the exam of my life when Marcus (not his real name...because even I believe in karma) waltzed into my life, smooth as an Anita Baker ballad but with chaos tucked neatly into every corner of his soul. What started as an exciting "situationship" turned into an endurance race so emotionally taxing I seriously considered taking up basket weaving just to escape the drama.

Let me take you back and break this down—because if there’s one thing I learned from surviving the hardest moment in my dating life, it’s this: lessons grow in heartbreak’s soil, even if you have to pull a few weeds first. So, buckle up, because we’re about to lean into the good, the bad, and the messy.

Love Bombs, Land Mines, and Learning the Hard Way

In the beginning, it was fireworks and confetti cannons. Marcus was what my auntie calls “a smooth operator”—texting at just the right times, remembering little details about my likes, and charming everyone from my friends to strangers at brunch spots. I was enchanted.

Marcus felt like one of those E. Lynn Harris characters in real life—a brother with game and gravitas. Our conversations drifted from music to mortality to our shared love of perfectly fried chicken wings and Luther Vandross albums. He made me feel seen, and for someone like me—a gay Black man born in southeast Texas where “seen” was often synonymous with “judged and discarded”—that was magnetic.

But here’s the thing about fireworks: they burn out. By month three, little cracks started showing—a dismissive comment here, a forgotten plan there. The Marcus who once sent “good morning” texts worthy of a Hallmark card now left me on read more times than my bank trying to upsell me a credit card. And still, I stayed. Why? Because I, too, bought into the narrative that love was supposed to be messy.

When Staying Feels Like Drowning

The real gut-check moment came on a Tuesday night. You’d think a serious relationship reckoning would happen on a milestone day or after a big event. Nope. This was a regular evening made extraordinary by the revelation I couldn’t ignore anymore.

Over takeout pho (a food I can no longer eat without feeling nauseous, by the way), Marcus casually said, “You know, not everyone’s meant for the kind of life you dream about.” When I pressed for clarification, he shrugged. “I just think you put too much…whatever, into stuff. It’s not that deep.”

Not that deep?! Sir, I am a Scorpio. Everything is deep.

That night, I felt untethered. Not because of his words, exactly—we’ve all dealt with flippant remarks. But because I suddenly realized how small I’d been willing to shrink to keep Marcus comfortable. My ambition, my vision, my everything that made me the person I’d worked tirelessly to be—all of it was somehow “too much” for this man who was comfortable living in the shallow end.

It’s ironic. I spent years teaching LGBTQ+ students about self-worth, yet there I was, tethered to someone who was actively dismantling mine one passive-aggressive comment at a time.

How to Spot Your Breaking Point

Looking back, leaving Marcus was less about one explosive fight and more about a quiet but critical truth: he was making me forget who I was. And let me tell you, forgetting yourself is like your phone battery hitting 2%—you don’t notice it creeping up until the warning hits.

Here are the signs I wish I’d noticed sooner (and ones you should flag if you see yourself in this story):
- You’re Compromising on Core Values: Growth means compromise, but sacrificing your voice, goals, or identity? That’s too expensive a price for any relationship.
- Their Actions and Words Don’t Match: If they say they care but disappear when you really need them, pay attention. “Good vibes” don’t pay the emotional rent forever.
- You Feel Like You’re in Competition: If you’re vying for the spotlight in your own story, the relationship isn’t a partnership—it’s a one-man show at your expense.

When I finally walked away, it felt a lot like teaching again—only this time the student was me. For the first time in months, I had to look my mirror-self in the eye and say, “You don’t have to dim your shine just because someone else can’t handle the light.”

The Real Glow-Up: Choosing You

Now, I won’t sugarcoat it. Breaking up with Marcus was hard, like trying to walk in Texas humidity with freshly pressed hair hard. I cried into my pillow, played every soul anthem from Mary J. Blige to Maxwell, and even texted him once or twice before deleting the thread so I wouldn’t spiral further.

But here’s the part they don’t tell you in romance movies: leaving is the easy part. Rebuilding? That’s where the real work happens.

I rebuilt by asking what I’d learned about myself. Spoiler: I didn’t blame Marcus entirely. Sure, his behavior was toxic, but I had tolerated it far too long. The Marcus chapter taught me not just what I deserved in a partner but what I was willing to demand of myself.

I started small:
- I drew boundaries like my life depended on it – because let’s face it, it did.
- I leaned into my chosen community—a dinner with my sorority sisters, a safe chat about my vulnerabilities with my family. Letting others love me reminded me how deeply I could love myself.
- And most importantly, I gave myself grace. A breakup isn’t a failure; it’s just a rescheduling of your happiness.

The Takeaway

If you’ve ever been where I was—stuck between heartbreak and healing, unsure if you’d ever bounce back—take this: You already have everything you need to survive it. It’s not about the happy ending; it’s about the necessary change.

I didn’t think I’d survive being with someone who made me feel invisible. But in walking away, I discovered the most remarkable relationship of all—the one I have with myself.

So whether you’re currently in a Marcus-like entanglement or just tired of repeating the same patterns, remember: you’re not “too much” for the right person. You’re enough. More than enough. And that’s worth everything.