06/03/2026
She stopped dressing up.
Stopped laughing the way she used to.
*Went from vibrant to barely present.*
And everyone could see it — except maybe her.
That's what a certain kind of relationship does. Not all at once. Gradually. So gradually that by the time she notices how much of herself she's lost, she's too depleted to remember who she was before him. The light doesn't go out in a moment — it dims slowly, day by day, comment by comment, dismissal by dismissal, until one day she looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize the woman looking back.
It's not always bruises. Sometimes it's the way he talks to her in private. The way she flinches before she speaks. The way she shrinks herself in rooms she used to command. The way her whole energy changed — and everyone around her felt it before she could name it.
Some men don't use their hands.
They use words, withdrawal, and slow erosion.
They take a woman full of life
and make her feel like *too much* and *not enough* simultaneously.
That's not love. That's consumption.
To every sister reading this still in it —
your light isn't gone.
It's just buried under someone
*who was never worthy of it.*
You are still her.
She is still in there.
*And she deserves to come back.*
We're waiting for her with open arms. 🤍