“When it hurts to let go, just recall the agony you experienced by holding on.” ~Unknown
There was a moment when I believed my heart would never mend.
I had been deceived, betrayed, and shattered by a man I thought I adored. A man who revealed himself to be nothing but a beautifully wrapped nightmare.
If you’ve ever been harmed by a narcissist, you understand that the anguish cuts deeper than most can fathom. You know how it infiltrates your very being, causing you to question your value and replay every instance, wondering if you could have prevented it.
I’ll never forget that evening in Paris when I discovered what love truly isn’t.
The Champs-Élysées was vibrant with golden lights hanging above. Shoppers strolled leisurely, bags swaying in their hands, laughter spilling from nearby cafés. The aroma of roasted chestnuts wafted through the brisk night air. And amidst that splendor, my world crumbled with a single heavy blow to the gut I did not deserve.
It transpired on the balcony of a renowned Paris hotel. I had caught a snippet of a phone conversation. His tone casual, almost indifferent. “I’ll be back in a few days.”
Back.
To. His. Wife.
My blood ran ice-cold.
The words clung to my skin like frost. Betrayal surged in my chest, my breath sharp and labored. I demanded explanations. My voice quivered, oscillating between rage and disbelief.
The initial slap was so swift I barely comprehended it. Then another. Then the kick. A sharp, unrelenting blow to my abdomen that folded me over and dropped me to the ground.
My lungs emptied. I gasped, but no breath came.
I yearned to scream. I wanted to scratch, to battle, to inflict pain on him. But a part of me understood that for survival, I had to remain still. My body trembled in silence, hot tears cascading down my cheeks, my ears buzzing as his voice became a haze of insignificant words.
The carpet felt coarse beneath my palms as I steadied myself. My ribs throbbed with every shallow inhalation.
When his fury finally subsided, I slipped away and stepped outside onto the balcony. The night air stung my face. Through the haze of tears, I beheld the Eiffel Tower glimmering in the distance, each light twinkling like a cruel reminder of my location—the city I had longed to explore. In love.
I clutched the railing, resisting the urge to fall apart again. I wanted to vanish. I wanted to eliminate every trace of his touch from my skin. I wanted to return home, crawl into my bed, and erase Paris from my thoughts.
It took months to untangle what transpired that night. Months to comprehend why I had permitted a narcissist to treat me so. I wasn’t naive. I wasn’t unloved. I hailed from a nurturing family. I cared for others.
So why had I convinced myself I deserved this?
Deep within, I had confused love with demonstrating my value. I believed that if I could just give enough, forgive enough, understand enough, I could earn love that remained.
That belief had quietly resided in me for years—from the little girl who learned to maintain harmony by being “good” to the woman who equated excessive giving with strength. I didn’t think I was deserving of cruelty, but I had yet to realize that I was worthy of love that came without suffering.
In retrospect, all the signs were apparent. Countless red flags I opted to ignore. The charm that ensnared me, the perpetual craving for attention, the way he manipulated the truth until I questioned my own sanity. The fury when I challenged him, followed by hollow promises meant to keep me tethered.
The bruises vanished in weeks. But the internal ache remained.
For a prolonged period, I harbored animosity towards Paris. I had experienced it with the wrong individual. I had envisioned us strolling hand in hand along the Seine, kissing on Pont Alexandre III as the city illuminated around us. I had imagined mornings in Montmartre with coffee and pastries, sunlight streaming through quaint café windows.
Instead, I encountered a nightmare.
Deep down, I always recognized that genuine love was effortless. Not that it didn’t necessitate effort, but that it didn’t strip away your dignity and your soul.
After months of recuperation, I documented precisely what I sought in a partner, and I refused to accept anything less.
Then, when I least anticipated it, he appeared. One email led to another, and soon we were conversing across time zones, our words constructing a bridge neither of us had foreseen.
He was eager to meet promptly. I hesitated. Part of me still desired the security of distance.
When we eventually met in New York City, the moment felt as if it was scripted long before we existed. I had arrived early that morning, wandering the city in the winter chill. When I