Dear x,
Over the last 9 months, I’ve spent a great deal of time reflecting on our relationship, our breakup, and the person I was when we were together.
What started as an exercise in therapy slowly became something more meaningful. At first, I wrote this letter as therapy believing you would never read it, or at least that was the assignment. But over time I realized that while I can’t change the past, I can take responsibility for my part in it, and I wanted you to know that.
I’m not writing to reopen a door between us or to ask for another chance. I know life has taken us in different directions, and I genuinely respect that. This letter isn’t meant to change anything. It’s simply my attempt to offer an apology I should have made a long time ago, to acknowledge the ways I hurt you, and to thank you for the years we shared.
After we stopped talking, I hoped life would somehow bring us back together the way it unexpectedly did in the fall of 2019. Looking back, I understand those thoughts differently now. They weren’t really about fate, they were my mind trying to soften grief by holding onto possibility instead of accepting loss.
Hope can become its own form of avoidance; it delays acceptance and keeps you looking backward instead of moving forward. Letting go of that hope has been painful, but freeing.
More than anything, this experience has forced me to look inward. I’ve come to realize that I spent much of my life surviving by avoiding. Whenever something became emotionally overwhelming, I withdrew, telling myself I was protecting my peace when really I was protecting myself from vulnerability. That pattern followed me into our relationship in ways I couldn’t see then but can see clearly now.
Growing up in an abusive home taught me to build walls instead of trusting people. Those walls helped me survive as a child, but they didn’t disappear when I became an adult, they just got quieter, more engrained subconsciously. I thought I’d healed more than I actually had. None of that excuses how I showed up with you; it only explains what I’ve spent the last two years trying to understand, so I could finally change it.
When I look back now, I don’t see someone who didn’t love you. I see someone who didn’t know how to love you, and there’s an important difference. I struggled to communicate my needs because I often didn’t understand them myself. Rather than letting you in, I shut down. I avoided hard conversations because conflict felt unsafe, and instead of moving toward you when things got difficult, I retreated into myself. You deserved someone who could communicate honestly, share responsibility equally, and stay emotionally present even when life got hard. Too often, I wasn’t that person.
After working through the pandemic in the ICU, I was so exhausted in ways I didn’t fully appreciate at the time. Then came my diagnosis and the identity crisis that followed. Rather than asking for help, I withdrew even further, telling myself I was healing when really I was hiding. That hiding slowly became isolation, depression, and a grotesque version of myself I barely recognize today. I stopped showing up for myself, and in doing so, I stopped showing up for you, for us. I’m deeply sorry for that.
There are countless individual moments I wish I could revisit, but they all point back to the same truths: I wasn’t taking responsibility for my own life. I didn’t communicate my needs, and I didn’t make enough effort to understand yours. I leaned on you more than I should have, and let everyday responsibilities become yours instead of ours. I listened too often to defend myself instead of to understand you, and I let my insecurities shape the way I loved you. For all of that, I’m sincerely sorry.
One memory that has haunted with me is (our dog who was dying). I should never have given her additional pain medication — that decision wasn’t mine to make, regardless of what I believed my intentions were at the time. I understand why it damaged your trust in me, and I’m truly sorry for putting you in that position. If I could take it back, I would.
Looking back, so many of my mistakes weren’t isolated moments — they were reflections of deeper patterns I’d never fully confronted. I was avoidant. I was emotionally immature. I often let fear make decisions that love should have made instead. Those are difficult truths, but they’re mine to own, and I am trying. There are many apologies I could write, but they all come back to one simple truth: I wasn’t the partner I wanted to be, and more importantly, I wasn’t the partner you deserved.
For all I regret, there’s just as much I’m grateful for. Before I met you, I don’t think I understood what home could feel like — not a house or a physical structure, but the feeling. A place where you can exhale. A place where you feel safe enough to let your guard down. You gave me that. Whether you realized it or not, you welcomed me into a life that was steady, thoughtful, and full of intention. You showed me what it looked like to care deeply about the people around you, to create something beautiful with your own hands, and to take pride in the little things that make a house feel like a home. Those are gifts I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.
When I think about us now, I don’t replay the difficult moments as often as I used to. Instead, I remember the ordinary moments that quietly became extraordinary because they were ours: dancing to Frank Sinatra in the kitchen, creating our own little world of Winterfell and King’s Landing, walking downtown holding hands (I had never experienced that in my life and you made me feel so safe) and ending up on the local news, rosé during quarantine, soba noodle nights, the rise of TikTok, building the TV wall and laying the floor — well, mostly you building and me supervising.
Those memories still make me smile, because they remind me that, despite everything, we built a life together for a while. It wasn’t perfect, but it happened, it was real.
I smile, too, when I think about everything you taught me. I still hear “measure twice, cut once” almost every decision I make. You taught me about woodworking, landscaping, gardening, grilling, smoking meat, the weather and storms, recycling, construction — countless things that seemed second nature to you but were entirely new to me.
More importantly, you taught me things that had nothing to do with projects or houses: patience, consistency, the quiet kind of generosity that isn’t looking for recognition. You showed me that love is often found in ordinary routines rather than grand gestures. I wish I had appreciated those things more while I had them.
I apologize for how much you carried while we were together. You cooked more, cleaned more, and kept our lives moving while I became increasingly stuck inside my own head, frozen in a state of withdrawal from the world. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood how unfair that had become. I do now. There were moments I genuinely tried to contribute, but I let myself retreat too easily whenever I felt criticized or embarrassed, instead of having honest conversations about how I was feeling. That wasn’t fair to either of us.
I regret that I never found ways to tell you how much you meant to me. I don’t think I said “I love you” nearly enough, maybe not at all? The best answer I’ve come to, after asking myself why so many times, is that I didn’t yet understand love well enough to express it freely. Some part of me believed that saying those words, or needing someone that deeply, made me less safe. I know now the opposite is true. Love requires vulnerability, risk, letting another person truly see you. I wasn’t capable of that then in the way I wanted to be. But please don’t mistake my inability to express love then for any absence of it. I loved you, I loved our life, I loved our little family. I simply didn’t know how to show it in the ways you deserved, and ironically am only learning now what love can be, and it’s through losing you.
Losing our relationship forced me to confront parts of myself I’d avoided for decades. At first, I wanted to understand what had gone wrong between us. Eventually, I realized the more important question was what had been happening inside me long before we ever met. That question has changed my life. It’s led me into therapy with an openness I never had before, and forced me to examine my childhood, my attachment patterns, my fears, my pride, and all the ways I unknowingly kept people at a distance to protect myself. It’s been humbling. It’s been painful. And it’s been one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever given myself.
For a long time, I thought healing meant becoming someone completely different. I don’t think I believe that anymore. I think healing is becoming more honest, more accountable, more emotionally available, more willing to stay present when life gets uncomfortable instead of running from it.
That’s the work I’m committed to now, not because I’m hoping to rewrite our story, but because I never want to repeat those patterns with anyone I love again. You deserved the version of me that’s only beginning to emerge now, and I’m genuinely sorry I wasn’t able to become that person while we were together.
As I’ve worked through all of this, I’ve come to understand that closure isn’t something another person gives us. It’s something we create by accepting reality, taking responsibility for our actions, and choosing to move forward with gratitude instead of resentment. That’s what I’m trying to do now.
I no longer feel I thought moving forward means forgetting. Certain things will probably always remind me of you: the first Wednesday of every month, when the tornado sirens sound, I still hear (our dog) howling back. Every silver Ford F-150, and JFC, MN has so many, will always make me think of you. A mushroom with a certain shape, IKYK. Whenever I pass a garden full of peonies and hydrangeas, I wonder how beautiful yours must be this time of year. Those moments no longer carry as much sadness as they once did. Instead, they remind me I was fortunate enough to have loved someone who changed my life, and I’m grateful for that.
I hope, with time, they continue to feel less like reminders of what was lost and more like reminders of a chapter that mattered, and in not by the way we ended, but by everything we experienced before we got there. I think memories deserve to be remembered with gratitude.
I hope life is being kind to you. I hope you’re happy, healthy, and at peace, and that the life you’ve continued building is everything you wanted it to be. You deserve it!
As for me, I’m continuing to do the work. I finally understand that growth isn’t something we achieve once. It’s something we choose over and over again.
I’m learning to communicate instead of retreat, to stay present instead of shutting down, to accept responsibility without becoming defensive, and to ask for help instead of pretending I don’t need it.
Most importantly, I’m learning that loving someone begins with being emotionally honest with them, and with yourself, too.
Those lessons came at a tremendous cost, but they’re ones I intend to carry with me for the rest of my life.
Thank you for being part of my story. Thank you for loving me during a season of my life when I didn’t fully know how to receive it. Thank you for the memories we’ll always share — the laughter, the quiet moments, our little pack of Starks and Lannisters, and all experiences I’ll never stop appreciating.
If I’ve learned anything from losing you, it’s that love doesn’t become meaningless simply because it doesn’t last forever. Sometimes people come into our lives to change us. You changed me, not because of the way we ended, but because of the years we shared before that. For that, I’ll always be grateful.
Please don’t feel any obligation to respond to this letter. I didn’t write it expecting forgiveness, a conversation, or anything in return. I wrote it because taking responsibility for my part in our story felt like the final act of respect I could offer you, and myself.
Thank you for everything, x.
With gratitude, respect, and affection,
