Mitchell Musings
The love wasn’t the problem. The discernment was. And that’s a much more honest story.
I was driving to a dear friend’s funeral when I passed an exit sign with a last name that sent me straight back to another season of my life. There was no warning; that memory just walked right in and sat down. My body was on the road, but for a second, I was back there — remembering a woman who had loved someone with everything she had, and then spent years shaking her head at herself for it.
And that woman was me. For a long time, I wasn’t kind to her. When I thought about that relationship, I’d feel this low-grade irritation — like, girl, what were you thinking? I’d replay things through the lens of what I eventually found out, and then turn around and side-eye my younger self for not connecting the dots sooner, as though she should’ve had information she simply didn’t have yet. And honestly, I think a lot of us do that.
But something was different that day in the car. I passed that sign and instead of the usual I can’t believe I fell for that, I felt grace. Real, quiet grace — like something finally let go. Here’s what I saw clearly, maybe for the first time: I hadn’t been wrong for loving. I’d been giving access to someone who didn’t have the maturity, the integrity, or the intention to handle what I was offering. Those are two very different problems, and for years I’d been blaming myself for being too loving. That distinction matters. A lot.
There’s a difference between “I needed more discernment” and “something was wrong with me.” One is a lesson. The other is a verdict. One helps you grow. The other makes you start treating the best parts of yourself like liabilities.
Here’s the truth: I wasn’t wrong for being sincere. I wasn’t wrong for believing that love should mean something. And I wasn’t wrong for showing up with a heart that wanted honesty and real partnership. I didn’t need to love less — I needed better judgment about who deserved my love.
That’s the thing I wish more people would take away from heartbreak. Because what usually happens? We get hurt, and we decide the loving part of us must be the problem. We get suspicious of our own tenderness. We start calling our hope foolish because somebody exploited it or just… didn’t value it.
I’m still a loving person. I’m grateful that life — and disappointment — didn’t take that from me. I can still feel deeply. I still believe in real connection. The difference now is that I understand the value of what I carry. I don’t believe being loving means being endlessly available anymore. Being compassionate isn’t the same as open-door access. And just because I can see the good in someone doesn’t mean I have to ignore whether they’re actually capable of being good to me. That’s not bitterness. That’s maturity.
There’s a kind of healing that lets you stay soft without being unguarded — that lets you keep your heart open without leaving the doors unlocked. I think that’s where a lot of us are trying to get to. We don’t want to go hard, we don’t want to be suspicious of every new person walking in, but we also can’t keep giving sacred things away like they’re ordinary.
Because they’re not ordinary. Love is sacred. Your energy is sacred. Your patience, your loyalty, your presence — all of it is sacred. And when we don’t treat it that way, we end up mistaking intensity for intimacy. We confuse another person’s attention for intention, thinking someone’s receiving us deeply when really, all they’re doing is enjoying their access to us. That’s not a reason to despise who you were then. It’s just a reason to be more honest about what you know now.
I wasn’t stupid. I was sincere. I believed people meant what they said. I thought if I was coming correct, the other person must be too. And honestly? There were signs; I had doubts. The receipts were there. But I kept giving people the benefit of a doubt I’d already resolved — because I expected them to show up the way I would’ve. Everybody is not me, and that took a minute to learn.
And learn I did. Because now I know better. Not everyone who wants my attention deserves my access. Chemistry isn’t character, and interest is most certainly not intention. A person can be genuinely drawn to what’s beautiful in you and still not have what it takes to protect it. Love without discernment becomes self-abandonment. But discernment without love just becomes fear. The real work is learning to hold both at the same time.
That’s what I mean when I say there was nothing wrong with the way I loved. The love wasn’t the problem — the discernment was. And that’s a much more honest, and much more compassionate, story than the one I used to tell myself. I look back now and I can see it clearly: I was learning, and the person who should’ve been trustworthy simply wasn’t. That’s on them. But me — my heart was pure. And my younger self? I can bless her now.
Maybe somebody else needs to hear that too. That relationship that made you question yourself doesn’t have to be the one that closes you off. The part of you that you’ve been calling foolish might actually be the part of you that still knows how to love — in a world that desperately needs it. So don’t punish it. Don’t bury it. Steward it, and let it mature.
There was nothing wrong with the way you loved.
You just needed to work on the way you discerned.
