Short Stories

We were together for ten years — three dating and seven married. Between us, we had six children in a blended family. It was complicated but full of love, or so I thought. She used to say the kids were the problem — or that I allowed them to be.

We both believed in mindfulness, in staying calm, in working things through. But somewhere along the way, the silence between us grew louder than the love. Maybe she wanted out long before I realized it. When she left, I became the ghosted one.

I’ve already lost my parents and siblings to drugs and suicide, but somehow, this loss cut deeper. Maybe because I was conscious through it all — watching everything I’d built disappear piece by piece. At 61, I’m still trying to make sense of it, still trying to stand on my own two feet.

Grief has a way of reshaping you. I’m learning to breathe through the pain, to find small moments of peace, and to believe that maybe there’s still something ahead of me worth living for.

— David, 61, Santa Fe, NM

When you love someone who’s deeply avoidant, it feels like living between two worlds. Theirs is chaotic — full of hurt, fear, and distance. Mine was built on care, patience, and love. But somehow, I kept trying to meet them where they were, thinking love could fix what pain had broken.

It took me a long time to realize that I didn’t have to live in their world just to be loved. Their chaos isn’t proof of depth, and my peace isn’t something to be ashamed of.

So now I ask myself, again and again: why would I want to join their world when mine is already good? The truth is, I don’t. I’d rather protect my peace than lose myself trying to rescue someone who isn’t ready to be saved.

— Lauren, 38, Seattle, WA

I’m an older woman with young children — and that seems to be enough for people to decide I’m not worth knowing. Every time I start talking to someone, it ends the moment I mention my kids. I get ghosted before there’s even a chance to meet.

It hurts, because these are the two things I can’t change: my age and my children. They are my truth, my life, and somehow, my disqualifiers. I can’t pretend I’m younger. I can’t erase my kids. I can only keep showing up, even when it feels like there’s no point.Some nights, the loneliness feels impossible.

But I remind myself that love built on conditions isn’t love at all. Maybe the right person won’t see my life as baggage — they’ll see it as a story worth joining. Until then, I hold on to hope, even when it feels far away.

— Rachel, 44, Phoenix, AZ

Lately, it feels like no one wants me. Every time I try to connect with someone, they pull away, and I’m left wondering what’s wrong with me. I see my friends in happy relationships, loved and chosen, and I can’t help but feel left behind.

It’s lonely watching everyone around you get what you’ve been praying for. I try to stay hopeful, but some nights the silence feels heavier than hope. I just want someone to see me — really see me — and not run away.

I don’t know if it’ll ever stop feeling this way — this ache of wanting to be chosen, of trying to believe I’m enough even when no one stays. But maybe one day it will. Maybe one day, love won’t feel so far away.

— Maya, 25, Portland, OR

After nearly thirty years together, I finally broke. For more than a decade, I’d been overfunctioning—managing, fixing, holding everything together while slowly disappearing in the process. Leaving wasn’t about anger; it was about survival.

Now, in my late forties, I’m a single mom going through a divorce, starting over in a new place. I thought people would come out of the woodwork to help, that someone would notice how much I was struggling. But no one did—except one dear friend who drove states just to be with me for a week, overwhelming herself trying to hold me up.

It’s strange how quiet life becomes when you finally stop carrying everyone else’s weight. The village everyone talks about? I’m still waiting for it. But I’m learning to be my own—one day, one small act of self-kindness at a time.

Leaving broke me open, but it also reminded me that I deserve rest, care, and peace too. Maybe that’s what healing really looks like.

Michelle, 47, Colorado Springs, CO

For years, I ignored the signs. I kept getting closer even when it was obvious he didn’t care the same way. My heart was too far gone, and he took advantage of that. I was vulnerable, and he used me as he pleased.

Admitting I was a fool is easier than facing how hard it is to leave. The weight of broken hopes makes moving forward feel impossible. Most days I exist on prayers, just trying to get through.

He treated my emotions like a game, tossing me back and forth until I was exhausted. The dreams I once had—marriage, motherhood, a life built together—now feel out of reach. At this point, I don’t even want another relationship. I just want the hurt to fade into memory instead of being my daily reality.

Healing feels slow, but I know I have to choose myself, even if it’s one small step at a time.

 Elena, 32 Santa Fe, New Mexico

I remember that I felt as if I were drowning. Everything around me was dark, bleak. The days were interminable and the nights unending; it was like trying to catch your breath underwater. The world around me was muted, painted in gray and black – even the sky had lost its color.

It was an impossible thing to accept, that this was what my life had become. And so, finally, I didn’t. Instead, I sought help for the darkness that had swallowed me. It felt like emerging from a deep sleep, from the very bottom of the ocean, and I was drowsy from slumber. I went to the psychiatrist; I did the work. Light seeped back into the world, slowly and surely, and I was there to see it.

It may never be easy. I do take medication, and I struggle with the fear of a depressive relapse. But the difference is now I know that it ends, that something better is waiting for me once the darkness passes. I see that life is worth living, in all its flaws and imperfections, in all the wonderful and marvelous things that make us human. And that’s because I’m no longer drowning; I can breathe again.

My name is Regina Ann Faith, and I’m a self-published author of five books. I wrote Artistic Love In The Psych Ward to creatively share my journey with mental illness and the emotions I experienced during psychiatric hospitalizations. I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression since I was 18. My first hospitalization came at 25 after a breakdown at work, then again at 28 and 33—each time shaped by grief, stress, or stopping my medication. Writing became my outlet. Through fiction, I gave voice to my truth, weaving in raw emotions like anger, sadness, and forgiveness. My goal is to help others feel seen in my characters. Everyone has a story, and your voice—through writing, art, or music—can save a life. Share it.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been so conscious about my body weight. Every meal felt like a calculation, every mirror felt like a test. Growing up plus-size in a world that praises thinness made me question my own worth for far too long.

But I’m done letting a number define me. I’m proud of the body that carries me through life with strength, beauty, and resilience. My worth isn’t measured in pounds or inches — it’s in the way I show up, the way I love, and the way I live unapologetically.

To every plus-size woman who has ever felt unseen: you are powerful, you are worthy, and you are absolutely enough. You don’t have to shrink yourself for anyone. Take up your space, proudly.

The pulling the rug from underneath event in my life was having the epiphany that my father will never see me. My family will never see me. They may see my face, but never want to try to know who I am. Our relationship was good until I decided I didn’t want to put on masks anymore. I am in the sea of life learning how to swim as I try to propel forward. No help. No life jacket. But I grow stronger with the waves. I am resilient and tenacious and that is my strength.

Lanae Dallas, TX

Growing up, I never felt like I fit in—especially in relationships. As a single woman in my late 30s, I realized I was a people pleaser, carrying others’ burdens at the cost of my confidence and self-worth. A relationship with a narcissist abroad shattered my goals and drained me mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I lived in fear, walking on eggshells, and questioning if it was the wrong place, wrong people, or just bad timing. When I realized no one was coming to save me, I turned inward. I leaned on God, tapped into my intuition, and began the journey of healing. I’ve been doing shadow work, shedding old layers, and finding peace. Healing is slow, but I now stand in a new season of self-awareness and rebirth—one where I choose myself, live from my center, and embrace my power.

Estella Achinko, Bahrain, IG @seasonedwriter

I was diagnosed with scoliosis at 10 and bullied for it—called the “disease girl.” I struggled with body image, chronic pain, and shame, especially after spinal fusion surgery at 15. Writing became my therapy, my way to express what I couldn’t say out loud. My first poetry book, Secret Feelings, shares my journey with scoliosis and mental health through raw, intimate poems. I kept it a secret from my family until I published it. Now, I use my voice to spread awareness and remind others they’re not alone. Being bent doesn’t mean I’m broken—it means I’m strong.
IG: @audreaslife @authoraudreacraig | TikTok: audreacraig | audreacraig.com

The purpose of pain gives your life meaning but also heavy weight.

However, you are stronger than you think.

The peace you seek resides inside you.

You’ve done the heavy lifting; now it’s time to lay it down and rest within you.

-Alexandra Crain

Real love is a force that demands recognition.

It is not convenient or timely.

It is confounding and profound.

It is worth every effort and fiber in your being if you find it to keep it.

There exists nothing more powerful or  valuable than love.

-Alexandra Crain