Soft Power, Strong Fight Blog Series - Part 3 | Learning to Love Myself the Way I Loved Him

I loved him well.

Not perfectly. Not blindly. But well.

I made space for his silence. His stress. His endless “we’ll see” replies — which, let’s be honest, were code for “not a chance.”

I softened. Adjusted. Listened.

And I said the words I never say to men: “I love you.”

He was the first — and likely the last — to hear it from me like that.

The only person I tell it to is my daughter, and I do so from the heart.

She’s never made me regret it.

A Downgrade in Real Time

And what did I get in return?

“I’m fond of you.”

Then: “I really like you.”

And eventually — just, “I like you.”

Eighteen months in, I felt like I was on probation for having feelings.

I stopped believing anything he said.

His words arrived in a detached manner — like an auto-reply email.

Vague. Polite. Empty.

“Thanks for your message; I’ll get back to you when I like it.”

I took an interest — He took a pass.

I tried to meet him where he was.

Asked about his work. Made an effort. Paid attention.

He didn’t understand — or seemed to lack any genuine interest — in what I do for a living.

He couldn’t tell you what lights me up. What I’m passionate about. What I’m building.

It was like talking to someone behind a soundproof screen.

I was open. Unfiltered.

He acted as if I were MI5.

Emotionally restrained. Suspicious. Guarded.

Like I was going to leak his schedule to the press.

Meanwhile, I gave full disclosure with a side of humour. That’s who I am.

He was a politician. I was an open book.

Different languages entirely.

And then came the apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Not for everything.

Not for the emotional absences, the disinterest, or the bread-crumbing.

No — he apologised because I told him that I was hurt he hadn’t made even one hour for me when he was in town.

One. Hour.

Not a day. Not a weekend.

Just sixty minutes. And even that was a stretch.

That was the moment I realised he didn’t truly care about the relationship. He didn’t feel a strong emotional connection. Not meaningfully.

His “I’m sorry” felt like PR clean-up.

A last-minute line to avoid looking like the villain.

A vague nod to empathy, with zero depth.

And that’s when something in me just… stopped.

Rebirth (After One Good Cry)

I had a duvet day. Just one.

I cried. I sat with the ache.

Felt the sadness - and the relief.

Because, as much as it hurt, I was done.

No more fight is left.

No more reaching, hoping, adjusting, or waiting.

I sent him a message:

“Please only contact the people who are relevant to your life.”

And like that - it ended.

Let Me Love Me

Since then, he has sent me a message every couple of weeks.

Nothing deep enough to check if I’m still the broken bird he assumes I have become without him.

Spoiler: I’m not.

I did the crying. I did the duvet.

And the next day? I woke up as someone else.

Not someone new.

Someone fully me.

That was the day Maya Steele was born.

Loving Me Like I Loved Him

Now?

I check in with myself.

I show an interest in what I care about.

I say “I love you” to the woman who stayed through it all.

No more romanticising emotional crumbs.

No more loving someone because they let me.

If love doesn’t come with effort, attention, and basic humanity —

I’m not entertaining it.

I gave him grace. Loyalty. Patience.

Now I give that same love — no discounts — to myself.

And that love?

It lands.

It sticks.

It heals.