And Somehow… I’m Smiling Again

There’s a quiet shift happening inside of me, one I can’t quite put into words—but I feel it. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m smiling. Not to cover up the pain or pretend I’m okay. It’s a real smile. An honest one. A reflection of a heart that’s been broken… but is starting to believe in wholeness again.

I feel incredibly blessed. Not because everything in my life is in place—far from it—but because God gave me the most loving and supportive children I could ever ask for. They are my reason. My purpose. My breath. They don’t even realize how many times they’ve kept me going without saying a word. The strength they pull out of me when I feel like I have nothing left is what saves me daily. I look at them, and I see love in its purest form. I created them. We shared a heartbeat. And I can’t imagine my life without them in it.

There was a time, though, when I felt that way about my husband. A time when I honestly didn’t believe I could live, breathe, or even function without him. My world revolved around our relationship, around the love I poured into it, and around the hope that things would get better. When it all started to fall apart, I felt like I was falling with it.

But something feels different now.

For the first time in six months, I can truly picture a life without him—and I’m not afraid of that image anymore. I’m not broken at the thought of him moving out in July. In fact, I’m starting to look forward to it now. Not because I don’t love him, and not because I stopped wanting our marriage to work, but because I’ve come to realize something I wasn’t fully ready to accept before: I deserve more than being tolerated. I deserve more than confusion or indifference. I deserve to be chosen, seen, and valued by someone who genuinely wants to share life with me.

And if that’s not him, then that’s okay.

I’m not fully healed, and I’m not pretending to be. But I’m finally ready to do life on my own, and that’s something I didn’t think I’d be able to say out loud. I’ve spent so long fighting to be loved by someone else, but now… I’m choosing to fight for myself. Because I trust that I won’t leave me. I won’t give up on me. I know what I bring into a relationship, and I know my heart. I know my capacity to love, to nurture, to build something beautiful. And if someone can walk away from that… maybe they were never meant to stay.

Lately, I’ve been talking to God a lot. And I’ve questioned Him more times than I can count. Why so many storms at once? Why the emotional pain and financial pressure? Why now? His answer has been the same every time: “I got you.” And I have to believe that. I have no choice but to believe it—because even though everything feels shaky, I know He heard the one prayer that mattered most to me.

I asked God not to let me die from a broken heart.
And He didn’t.
I’m still here.

Still healing. Still standing. Still waking up each day, trying to find myself again. And now, I can see my husband without falling apart. I can remember the good moments without drowning in them. I can imagine joy that doesn’t include his name. And I can dream of peace that isn’t tied to someone else staying.

God is shifting my focus. He’s showing me that my identity was never meant to be solely defined by being a wife or even a mother. My identity is rooted in me—in being whole on my own, in being intentional, and in choosing myself even when it’s hard. And that realization? That quiet becoming? It’s saving me.

My story isn’t over. It’s just finally becoming mine.

“I thought I needed him to breathe. But I’ve never felt more alive than I do choosing myself.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

I Still Love Him. But I’m Learning to Love Me More.

There are days when it feels like I can’t get anything right. Not my marriage. Not my career. Not even my life. It’s like everything I touch eventually falls apart, and I’m left picking up the pieces, wondering if I’m the problem. I keep asking myself—when will I get something right?

I thought about my husband today. About how, nine years ago, I was ready to leave. I had finally reached my breaking point. And when I told him I wanted a divorce, he tried to take his own life. That moment haunted me. It made me question if leaving was the wrong decision. So I let him come back… because I loved him. Because I believed in his promise to change. But within two weeks, he was right back to being cold. Distant. Cruel. I regretted letting him come back almost immediately, but I stayed. I always stayed. And somehow, even now, he resents me for leaving him when he says he was at his lowest. But the truth is—I never left him without making sure he could stand on his own. He had a job, he could take care of himself. I would never abandon someone who couldn’t survive. That’s not who I am.

And now… I’m the one trying to survive.

Bills are drowning me. The mortgage is hanging over my head. I’m thinking about selling my house because I honestly don’t know how I’ll make it without a second job. I’m trying to stay afloat—for myself, for my kids, for a future I can’t even picture clearly right now. And meanwhile, the man I sacrificed for, the man I chose over and over again… acts like he couldn’t care less about how I’m doing. He did what was best for him. But when I tried to do what was best for me, I became the villain.

What hurts the most is that I still love him. And I hate that. I don’t know if I love him, or if I just love the idea of being married. Maybe I’m scared of being alone. Before I met him, I didn’t even want to be married again. I loved my freedom, my space. But now… I’ve grown used to partnership. To sharing life with someone. The crazy part is, we were never truly happy. Not really. We had good moments, but we lacked the foundation—communication, understanding, trust, patience, loyalty, grace. Love was never enough. It never is.

I know I need to get him out of my system. Out of my heart. Out of my head. Out of my life. And honestly… it is getting easier. Slowly. I still feel the sting of rejection every day, but I’m beginning to breathe through it. They say time heals all, and maybe it does. I just know I’m a work in progress. And that’s okay.

Because just like I once fell in love with him… I’m starting to fall in love with me. And this time, I want to love myself with everything I once gave away too easily. I want to love myself with patience. With compassion. With understanding and forgiveness. I want to give myself all the things I begged someone else to give me.

I know it took time to lose my confidence, so I’ll give myself time to build it again. I just hope that time comes soon, because I’m so ready. Ready to live. Ready to breathe without fear. Ready to come out from the shadows of sadness and truly be.

I’m ready to believe in myself again.
To look in the mirror and see beauty, not brokenness.
To feel worthy, even when no one is clapping.
To stop waiting to be chosen, and instead, choose me.

I want to have stronger faith. I want to believe that God has me in the palm of His hand and that every storm I’ve survived has a sacred purpose. I want to believe that the pain won’t last forever and joy is still possible. I want to believe in healing. In second chances. In a softer, safer love that starts within.

Because the truth is…
I still love him.
But I’m learning—slowly, painfully, beautifully—to love me more.
And this time…
She chose herself.

Quote:
“The love I gave away so freely—I’m learning to pour it back into me.”
💔💗✨

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

I Never Knew... Until Now

I’ve been thinking a lot about what marriage meant to me. Marriage, to me, meant being chosen. Not just once—but every single day. It meant I had a partner. A best friend. Someone to come home to… someone who wanted to come home to me. Someone to laugh with, cry with, grow old with. Someone to whisper secrets to at night. Someone who wanted to know my heart and touch my soul. Someone who reached for my hand without me asking.

Marriage was supposed to be safe. Intimate. Unbreakable. It was supposed to be late-night laughs, shared dreams, forehead kisses, the way our bodies just knew each other. It was supposed to be his hazel eyes looking into mine like I was his whole world. It was supposed to be knowing that no matter what happened outside those walls—we had each other. We were home.

And now… I miss that home.

I miss the friendship the most. The way we could laugh about the same stupid things. The way I used to save funny reels just for him. The way we’d talk about our days like no one else was listening. I miss venting to him about work. I miss hearing the random things that made him laugh. I miss the way he used to hold me when I was afraid, like during thunderstorms or after a hard day. I miss sitting across from him at dinner. I miss knowing I had someone to call. Someone who cared.

I miss the way he used to see me.

But I don’t cry like I used to. Not because it doesn’t hurt—but because I think God stepped in and started to carry the pieces of my broken heart for me. He heard my prayers—the ones I whispered in the dark when no one else knew I was barely hanging on. And slowly… He’s helping me let go.

I try not to be around my husband now. Not because I hate him—but because I don’t trust myself around him. My heart is still soft when it comes to him. My love didn’t die the way his did. So I protect myself. I avoid his eyes, even though he barely makes eye contact anymore. He doesn’t come near me. He doesn’t cross any emotional lines. He’s made it clear—he’s already gone.

And somehow… that hurts less than the in-between ever did.

But the loneliness? It’s real. It’s heavy. It sneaks up on me in the quiet moments—when no one’s checking in, when no one’s asking how I’m doing, when I have to lift the heavy groceries by myself or lie to the kids about why I’m sad. I’m still trying to adjust to doing everything alone. Still trying to convince myself I don’t need to be protected anymore. Still learning how to stand in the silence and not crumble.

I’m learning to love myself in the absence of someone else’s love. I’m learning to be enough—even when it doesn’t feel like it. I’m learning to give myself the care I always hoped someone else would give me.

And yes, I’m scared. Terrified, even. I’m scared of not being supported—emotionally, financially, physically. I’m scared of being alone for the rest of my life. I’m scared I’ll never be held the way I used to be. I’m scared no one will ever look at me again the way he once did.

But even in that fear… I’m fighting.

Fighting to believe I am still worthy.
Fighting to believe I’m still lovable.
Fighting to believe that even if no one else chooses me—I can still choose myself.

I never knew choosing myself would break my heart this deeply. I never knew how much I had abandoned myself trying to save us. I never knew how much I relied on him for happiness I should have been giving myself. I never knew how long I’d been loving someone else from an empty cup. I never realized how invisible I had become—to him, and to myself.

But now… I see it all clearly.
Now, I have no choice but to choose me.
Because this time... she chose herself.

“She broke her own heart to save her soul.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

When I Looked at Him… and Then at Me

I am not okay today.

I tried to be. I tried to fake it. I tried to push through with the usual “you got this” pep talk I whisper to myself when no one’s listening. But today, it didn’t work. Today, the weight of everything I’m carrying caught up with me, and it broke me all over again.

Lately, I’ve been questioning everything. I feel like I wasn’t a good wife—no, I know I wasn’t a good wife. And that pain is deeper than I want to admit. I feel like I’m failing at motherhood, too. I haven’t been present the way I want to be. I feel like I suck at real estate, like I can’t make progress no matter how hard I try. And at work? I feel like I’m falling short. Like I can’t lead the way I’m supposed to because I’m so emotionally drained that I’m barely holding myself together. I feel like I can't win. Anywhere. I feel like I fuck up everything I touch. My life feels like a storm I can’t escape—chaotic, relentless, and unforgiving.

Last night, I looked at my husband. Really looked at him. And what I saw crushed me. He didn’t look like the man I married. He didn’t feel like the person I once thought would never hurt me. He looked… different. Stronger. More confident. He seems like he values himself now. He’s aged well, like time has made him bolder, more sure of who he is. He’s not the same man who once cried at our vows.

And then… I looked at myself.

And what I saw shattered me.
When we got married, I was powerful. I was confident. I felt beautiful. I felt seen and wanted. I was resilient and self-sufficient—I had spent years raising my children alone and doing the impossible with nothing. I was her—that strong, radiant woman who could take on the world. And now? Now I feel like a shell of her. I feel fragile, like I could break at any moment. Even though he still tells me I’m beautiful, I can’t see it. I don’t feel it. My value, my light, my joy—it all feels dimmed. And not because he doesn’t love me anymore… but because somewhere along the way, I stopped loving me.

My heart is broken—not just from his decision to leave, but from the overwhelming sense that I’ve lost control over every piece of my life. Life is beating me down, without mercy, without pause. And I’m just trying to survive the storm. I’m trying so hard to fight off the negative thoughts with positive self-talk. To speak to myself with grace. To love myself through the wreckage. But it’s going to be a long journey… because right now, I don’t feel like enough.

When I looked at him last night, I realized something that made me ache even more—he doesn’t feel like home anymore. And the truth is, I don’t feel like home anymore either. I used to be my own home. Before him, I had built something beautiful inside of myself. I was safe in my own presence. I knew who I was. And then I gave it all away. I turned “my home” into “our home,” and now that he’s emotionally moved out, I’m standing in what’s left… just me, the kids, and the echoes of what once was.

He drained me. Slowly. Quietly. Completely.
My joy. My confidence. My resilience. My belief in myself. Gone.
And I have spent so much time mourning the loss of him… that I didn’t realize God might be giving me back me.

Maybe this isn’t a punishment. Maybe it’s a blessing.
Maybe him leaving isn’t the end of my story—it’s the beginning of my return.
Because I deserve more.

I deserve a partner who enhances my life—not one who makes me question my worth.
I deserve faithfulness. I deserve to be chosen—every day, in every room, in every season.
I deserve to be loved for the softness I bring, not punished for it.
I deserve to be looked at like I am a blessing.
I deserve joy. I deserve peace. I deserve someone who was created just for me.

And until then… I deserve me.

I deserve to learn how to love myself again.
To put myself first. To see the beauty in my reflection. To honor the woman I’m becoming.
To be okay if no man ever chooses me again—because I finally chose myself.

I am not okay today. But I’m healing. And that matters too.

Because she chose herself this time.

Quote:
“Maybe losing him wasn’t the worst thing… maybe forgetting who I was is. But now, I remember. And I’m choosing me.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

The Weight of a Bare Finger

These last few days have felt like I’m moving through fog—emotionally numb and not quite like myself. I’ve been thrown off balance, trying to make sense of where I stand in a marriage that no longer feels like home. I survived our anniversary, but only because we didn’t see each other that day. There were no texts, no calls, no acknowledgments of what that day used to mean. The silence between us felt like a small mercy, a brief gift of emotional distance that made the pain just a little more bearable.

But that distance didn’t last. He was upset with me for not coming home Friday night. He said he was hurt that I didn’t tell him I wouldn’t be there. I remember feeling confused—because what exactly was I supposed to come home to? To a house where I feel invisible? To a man who doesn’t speak to me unless I speak first? To someone who used to be my protector but now walks past me like I don’t exist? I stayed in a hotel that night, not to punish him, but to protect myself. And maybe he’ll never understand that.

He admitted that he thought I was with another man. That caught me off guard. And in my heart, all I could think was—why does it matter? If he’s no longer in love with me, if he’s already emotionally detached, why would it matter if someone else sees my worth? It felt like he doesn’t want me… but also doesn’t want anyone else to have me either. That realization made me feel like an object—possessed, but not loved. And that’s one of the cruelest forms of heartbreak: to be no longer wanted, yet still claimed.

Then Sunday morning happened. We crossed paths early, and when our eyes met, something heavy and unspoken passed between us. There was this long, painful eye contact—so deep it felt like it touched something buried inside of me. He reached for me. And I let him. Our bodies met in this familiar, desperate embrace. We held each other like two people clinging to the memory of what we used to be. And then the tears came—both of us sobbing from a place so raw, it felt like we were crying for everything we had lost and everything we couldn’t fix.

For a few moments, it felt like love. Like home. Like comfort. But it also felt like betrayal. Because on what should’ve been a day of celebrating our union, we were instead mourning its end. There was no joy, no plans for the future—just pain, confusion, and the quiet unraveling of something we once believed would last forever.

While we were talking, I looked down and noticed something that made my heart drop—his wedding ring was gone. That tiny, empty space on his hand felt louder than anything he could have said. It was like the final confirmation that he had moved on. He wasn’t mine anymore. He wasn’t even pretending to be. Seeing his bare finger made something inside of me shatter. I lost it. I cried harder than I have in years. My body trembled. My chest felt like it was being crushed. It wasn’t just about the ring—it was about everything it symbolized being erased.

So, I took mine off too.

My rings hadn’t left my finger in twelve years. Through everything we went through—arguments, disappointment, betrayal—I never once took them off. But in that moment, I realized I had to. Not for him, but for me. I looked at him through my tears and said the words I needed to hear myself say: “I don’t belong to you anymore. I belong to me.”

Now my hand feels so strange. I keep looking at my bare finger like I’m waiting to feel something different. Some days it feels like a gaping wound. Other days, it feels like a badge of courage. That missing ring is a reminder of everything I gave. Everything I lost. But it’s also a reminder of everything I’m reclaiming.

It reminds me that I deserve to be loved with intention, not out of obligation. That I don’t need someone to choose me halfway—I need someone who’s all in. It reminds me that I don’t have to settle for being tolerated when I deserve to be celebrated. That my worth isn’t based on anyone’s ability to love me, but on the truth of who I am. That I am strong, even when I feel broken. That I am enough, even when I’m alone.

And maybe most importantly, that ringless finger reminds me that this chapter is closing—and that’s okay. This chapter taught me to hold space for my own healing. To love myself more deeply than I ever have. To stand in my pain without letting it consume me. And to stop choosing people who treat me like an option.

Because this time, I refuse to choose him and be an option for him…
because she chose herself this time.

Quote:
“When he took off his ring, it broke me. But when I took off mine, it healed me… one breath at a time.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

Releasing Him… So I Can Choose Me

This morning, alone in a hotel room, I cried so hard my body shook. I cried from a place so deep inside me that I didn’t even know existed. The kind of cry that comes from the soul. I wept and I prayed. Prayed and cried. The pain in my heart has become unbearable, and all I could do was beg God to set me free.

Free from the hope that he’ll change his mind.
Free from the need for him to want me.
Free from the ache of still loving someone who no longer chooses me.
Free from waiting to be seen. To be held. To be loved.

It’s almost impossible to heal when he still comes home every day—but only because he has nowhere else to go. There’s no connection anymore. No warmth. No partnership. Just silence. Just distance. Just coexisting. I know he’s only here for financial reasons, but sometimes I wish he wouldn’t come home at all. Because honestly? That would be easier than watching him ignore me. Easier than pretending this shell of a marriage still resembles what it used to be.

I don’t want anyone but him. But I’m learning—wanting someone doesn’t mean they’re meant to stay. And as painful as that realization is… I vow to let him go. From my heart. From my mind. From the hope that he will ever be the man I once believed he was.

We were a lesson for each other. Not a forever.

I don’t know what I taught him. But he taught me this:
Never give so much of yourself to someone else that you have nothing left for you when they leave.
Never love so deeply that you forget to protect your own heart.
Love is not enough.
And everyone leaves.

Maybe I’m meant to walk the rest of this life alone. Maybe not. But right now, the fear of being alone forever feels less terrifying than staying in something that already made me feel invisible.

I stayed away last night because I couldn’t bear to wake up next to him on our anniversary. I couldn’t be reminded—again—that I am no longer loved by the man I gave everything to. That was more than my heart could take.

But today, I took my first step toward healing:
I am releasing him from my heart.
Not because I don’t love him—but because I love me more.

I’m letting him go. Peacefully. Freely. Completely.

Because this time…
She chose herself.

Quote:
“Some of the hardest goodbyes are the ones you never imagined you’d have to say… to the person you thought would never leave.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

Twelve Years Ago, I Said I Do. Today, I’m Letting Go.

Twelve years ago today, my heart was so full it could’ve burst.

I had the man I loved standing next to me, crying during our vows because he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to call me his wife. We didn’t need a big ceremony or a crowd. We had our children, our parents, and each other. That was enough. We were enough. I remember how he looked at me—like he was in awe of the woman God had given him. The way his eyes softened when I smiled, the way his voice cracked when he said, “I do.” I felt like I was his entire world. And for a while… I was.

We couldn’t get enough of each other. We were always close. We looked forward to coming home after work, texting throughout the day like teenagers in love, promising each other how the night would end. I felt that love in my body. I felt it when I laid my head on his chest, listening to the heartbeat that made me feel safe, protected, chosen. I was his softness. He was my strength. And when he held me—I believed in forever.

I wore my wedding ring with so much pride.
I never took it off.
Not once.
Because it meant something.
It meant I belonged to someone who loved me.
It meant I had found my forever.

But now, twelve years later… on the same day we once celebrated love, I’m sitting in a hotel room by myself, trying to survive the reality that it’s all over.

We are divorcing.
We barely speak.
He avoids me in the house we once built together.
He’s told me—over and over again—that he doesn’t love me anymore.
And that… that’s a grief I can’t put into words.

This day used to mean something beautiful.
Even when we didn’t have much, we celebrated.
Dinner dates. Quiet nights in. Trips when we could afford it.
But we always honored it.
We honored us.

And now?
I woke up alone because I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him this morning. I didn’t want to pretend. I didn’t want to feel the weight of the silence. I didn’t want to face the man who once lit up when I walked in the room… now barely acknowledging me at all.

So I left.
I needed space to fall apart in private.
I needed to be somewhere I could grieve what this day used to mean.
Because today isn’t a celebration anymore.
Today is a goodbye.

I keep thinking about the good times—the laughter, the closeness, the feeling of being loved completely. And I’m trying not to get lost in the pain that followed. The arguments. The distance. The betrayals. The slow unraveling. The silence that grew between us. The emotional wounds I still haven’t healed from.

My heart isn’t okay today.
And maybe it won’t be for a while.

But I know one thing: I can’t keep loving someone who stopped loving me. I can’t keep waiting for him to remember who I was to him. I can’t keep giving my tears, my energy, my loyalty to someone who has already walked away in every way that matters.

He may not have packed a bag, but emotionally… he left me a long time ago.

So today, on what was supposed to be our anniversary, I’m making a different kind of vow.

I’m vowing to let go.
I’m vowing to stop begging for love.
To stop waiting for him to come back.
To stop sacrificing myself for someone who no longer sees me.

Today, I’m choosing me.

I’m investing in my healing, my growth, my peace.
I’m choosing faith.
I’m choosing God’s timing, even when it hurts.
And I’m choosing the woman I abandoned for so long while trying to keep a marriage alive.

She’s been waiting.
And today, I’m coming back to her.
Because this time…
She chose herself.

Quote:
“She let go, not because she stopped loving him—but because she finally realized she deserved to be loved in return.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

He Loved Me Enough to Let Me Go. Now I’m Learning to Love Me Enough to Stay.

It’s getting real now.

We’re finalizing everything—splitting finances, discussing next steps, untangling what we built together. What once felt like a slow emotional drift has become a concrete separation. It’s no longer just a quiet ache—it’s an undeniable reality.

He’s leaving.

And even though I’ve known it was coming, the finality of it still caught me off guard. The weight of it sits heavy in my chest, pressing against the part of me that used to believe this would last forever.

To protect myself, I’ve started recalling the moments he hurt me. Not out of spite or bitterness, but as a way to stay rooted in the truth—because if I don’t, I risk falling back into the fantasy of what we once were. If I focus on the ways I felt unseen, unloved, unsupported… I can remind myself why this separation is not only necessary, but healthy. For both of us.

The truth is, we were never fully compatible. We didn’t share much in common—except for one powerful thing: we loved each other. For a while, I believed that would be enough to hold us together. I really did. But love alone wasn’t enough.

We both made mistakes. We both grew, but in different directions. We viewed love, partnership, and commitment through different lenses. And somewhere along the way, we stopped choosing each other.

I’ll never claim to have been the perfect wife. No one is.
Being a wife—just like being a parent or a partner—is something you figure out as you go. It takes learning, unlearning, falling short, and trying again. And when two people with strong individual pasts try to become one, it takes more than love to make it work. Especially when you’ve both learned how to survive alone.

I remember asking his parents—married over 40 years—what their secret was.
His father said something I’ll never forget:

“You’ll both grow individually. And you have to learn how to grow together. Because people change. Needs change. And nothing stays the same.”

That stuck with me. Because I thought I had done that. I thought I supported him through every stage of his evolution. I stood beside him. I cheered him on. I believed in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself. I stayed faithful—not just to the relationship, but to his growth.

But as he grew, his love for me faded. I continued choosing him… even when he stopped choosing me.

Looking back now, I realize that his growth didn’t include me in his future. I became a season. A lesson. A chapter. And maybe he was that for me, too.

Because what I’ve learned is this:
No matter how hard you love,
No matter how much you sacrifice,
No matter how deeply you hope or how long you stay…
if it’s not meant to be, it won’t be.

We should’ve let go years ago.
But we clung to the idea that love would be enough.
And it wasn’t.

This pain—the kind that sits in your bones and wraps around your throat—has been the deepest I’ve ever known. Some days I feel like I’m going to break under the weight of it. I keep telling myself I trust God and the process, and I do… but sometimes, I just want the ache to stop.

He didn’t say goodbye this morning. And it stung more than I wanted it to.
But then I remembered—he doesn’t owe me that anymore.
That’s something married people do.
And we haven’t really been married in a long time.

Strangely, part of me is thankful that he finally broke it off.
Because I deserve a love that chooses me—fully, freely, and without hesitation.
And he deserves someone who can meet him where he is emotionally.
I want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me.

I still care.
I still want to see him win.
I still want him to smile.

But more than anything…
I want to feel whole again.

Because being unchosen by someone you would’ve chosen a thousand times over is a specific kind of grief. One that leaves you questioning yourself and your worth.

And yet… I have to ask myself—
Did I want him again because I loved him?
Or because he felt familiar?
Because pain, when it’s what you know, can almost feel like home?

Maybe—just maybe—he did me the biggest favor by walking away.
Maybe this is my second chance.
A chance to breathe.
To rebuild.
To live.

He loved me enough to let me go.
And now it’s time for me to love myself enough to stay.

To stay when I want to run back to what’s familiar.
To stay when I feel lonely.
To stay when I wonder if I’ll ever feel deeply loved again.
To stay with myself—through the healing, the quiet, the rebuilding.

Because I’ve spent years giving my love to everyone but me.
And now, it’s time to turn that love inward.

It’s time to meet the woman I’ve become.
To comfort her.
To support her.
To tell her she’s beautiful, strong, and capable of getting through this.

It’s time to look her in the mirror and say:

“I’m proud of you.
You didn’t break.
You survived what you thought would destroy you.
And choosing yourself—though it hurts right now—will be the most powerful thing you’ve ever done.”

And I will.
Day by day.
Tear by tear.
Step by step.

I will choose me.
Over and over again.
Until it doesn’t feel like survival anymore.
It feels like home.

Quote:
“She stopped waiting for someone to choose her.
She chose herself. Fully. Fiercely. Forever.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

I Don’t Need His Love to Know My Worth

The other day, he told me again that he’s not in love with me.

As if I needed the reminder.
As if I hadn’t already replayed that sentence a hundred times in my mind—wondering what I did wrong, what I lacked, and why I wasn’t enough. Hearing it again didn’t offer clarity. It only reopened wounds I’ve been trying to let heal.

But this time, something in me shifted.

Maybe it was God. Maybe it was strength finally breaking through the heartbreak.
But instead of spiraling, I found myself asking a different question:
Why have I been looking for my worth in someone who stopped seeing me?

I’ve spent so much time beating myself up, trying to figure out what I could’ve done to make him stay in love with me. I’ve wondered if I wasn’t beautiful enough, kind enough, strong enough… lovable enough. I’ve been stuck in that loop for too long—doubting myself while trying to hold together a version of love that stopped choosing me.

But I’m not doing that anymore.

Because today, I heard something louder than his rejection: God’s voice.
And He reminded me of something simple and undeniable—I am the prize.

I don’t need his love to feel loved.
I don’t need his protection to feel safe.
I don’t need his approval to feel worthy.

I have me. I have God. And I have a growing sense of peace that no one else can give or take away.

I’m not that emotionally powerless woman anymore. The one who kept waiting to be chosen. The one who confused struggle with love. The one who settled for being tolerated when she was meant to be treasured.

Now, I’m learning to choose myself, gently and on purpose.

Yes, some days I still cry. And that’s okay.
Tears don’t make me weak—they make me real.
And even in the sadness, I’m still healing.

I’m choosing to give myself time, grace, and space to breathe again.
I’m choosing to walk forward, even if I stumble.
I’m choosing to live, even when it hurts.
And above all, I’m choosing to love myself through this.

No, I don’t need his love.
Because I have mine.
And that… is more than enough.

Quote:
“She stopped waiting for someone to choose her.
She chose herself. Fully. Fiercely. Forever.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

The Other Night He Held Me… and I Let Him

The other night, he held me again.
We still share a bed, even now. And I think that alone says more than enough about how complicated this has all become.

He laid his head on my chest, and for a little while, it felt like comfort. His arms wrapped around me tightly—just like they used to. It was the first time in a long time that I felt close to him again. There was something about his touch that made my heart feel steady for a moment, like maybe I wasn’t alone in this grief. But I knew better. I knew it wasn’t real.

I let him stay there too long. Not because I thought it would fix anything, but because for those few minutes, I needed to feel like I still mattered to him. I needed to feel chosen. Even if it was temporary. Even if it wasn’t true.

Eventually, I pulled away. I always do. Because I know the longer I stay in his arms, the harder it is to face the reality that he doesn’t love me anymore—not in the way I still love him. And the truth is, I can’t keep doing this to myself.

We don’t talk about us anymore. We haven’t in a long time. There are no conversations about what went wrong, no check-ins about how we feel. Just silence. And as painful as that silence is, it still feels easier than hearing the words I’ve already heard before: “I’m not in love with you anymore.”

That sentence did something to me. It shattered something I’m still trying to piece back together. And now, I just sit in the silence and pretend like I’m okay. Because pretending hurts less than hearing that truth again.

What’s hard is that even now, I still get excited when I hear his truck pull into the driveway. I still feel relief when I know he’s home—and not somewhere else with someone else. It’s like I’m living in this constant state of emotional contradiction. I know he’s not mine anymore, but my heart hasn’t caught up with that truth yet.

This in-between space is unbearable. I’m grieving a man who still sleeps in my bed. I wake up next to someone whose heart already left long ago. I see him every day, and every day I feel the same quiet ache that comes from loving someone who doesn’t love me back.

Sometimes I ask myself why he still comes home. Why he still holds me like that. Why he gives me just enough to keep a flicker of hope alive—while at the same time pulling further and further away. I wish I had answers, but all I have are questions and a thousand tiny heartbreaks.

And then I get mad at myself. Because I still want him. I still crave that closeness. I still ache for the version of him that used to make me feel safe, wanted, and loved. I still hold space for someone who’s already moved on emotionally.

Last night, I took a late-night drive. I just needed space, a moment to breathe. And for the first time in a while, he was home before me. My kids told me he asked where I was—and even that surprised me. For a second, I let myself believe it meant he cared. But deep down, I know better. Not in the way I need. Not in the way I deserve.

That’s what I’m trying to accept now—that he doesn’t see me anymore. And that’s what hurts the most.

So now, I’m trying to shift the focus back to me. I have to be the one to care about me, even if he doesn’t. Even if he never will again. I have to stop holding space for someone who’s already let me go. I have to choose myself—because no one else is going to do that for me.

The hardest part is convincing my heart of all of this. My head knows. My soul knows. But my heart is slow to let go. And still, I’m trying.

I keep telling myself that I’ll never love like this again. That I’ll never hand my heart over so completely to someone who won’t protect it. I’ll never live like this again. I’ll never let someone make a home in me only to walk out and leave everything in ruins.

I’ve decided that unless it’s self-love, I’m done.
Because if this is what love feels like…
I don’t want it anymore.

Quote:
“Grieving someone who still shares your bed is the cruelest kind of goodbye.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

She Chose Herself

I don’t even know how I feel today. There’s this restlessness in my spirit that I can’t quite name. But I know I want to get out of the house. I want to feel free again. I want to take myself on a date, get dressed up, go somewhere beautiful, and remind myself that I am still here. Still worthy. Still whole—even in the absence of companionship.

Because if I’m being honest, I’m lonely.

Not just for company—but for closeness, tenderness, connection. I miss what it felt like to be part of a marriage. I miss the daily texts. The “just thinking about you” calls. The flirtation. The soft touches. The shared care. I miss someone checking in, asking if I’m okay, looking out for me. I miss being seen in that way.

And I’m tired.
Tired of being sad.
Tired of waking up every day with a heaviness in my chest.

I’ve lived in grief for over six months. And while healing doesn’t have a timeline, I’m ready to feel something else—something lighter. Something like peace.

The truth is, as much as I’m grieving the loss of my marriage, I have to be honest with myself about what I’m really missing. If I look back clearly, the good moments were rare. Somewhere along the way, chaos became normal. I got used to being disappointed. I got used to the silence. I stayed because I had hope. I stayed because I loved him. But love should never feel like survival.

And I don’t want that anymore.

I’m done holding onto pain.
I’m done begging for love that stopped choosing me.
I’m done believing that the bare minimum was all I deserved.

I want the calm after the storm.
I want to smile without faking it.
I want to laugh again—really laugh.
I want to know what it feels like to be genuinely happy without bracing for the next letdown.

I want to expect joy.
I want to expect peace.
I want to expect love that feels safe, consistent, and true.

And I’m finally realizing—I can give all of that to myself.

If I don’t love myself…
If I don’t speak kindly to myself…
If I don’t treat myself with dignity, grace, compassion, and softness—
Why should I expect someone else to?

So I’m starting here. With me.

I’m going to date myself.
I’m going to dress up just for me.
I’m going to take myself out, light candles, write letters to my own heart, journal my healing, and create moments of beauty for no one else but me.

I’m going to talk to myself gently.
I’m going to nurture my body, protect my mind, and pour into my spirit.

I will not rush this.
I will not shame myself for still feeling.
I will give myself grace.

Because no one else can offer me the kind of love I truly deserve until I learn to offer it to myself.

And I’m learning.
I’m loving.
I’m letting go.

I’m ready to love me.
I’m ready to choose me.

Because this time…
She chose herself.

Quote:
“If you want to be loved gently, sweetly, consistently—start with how you love yourself.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

This Saturday Was Supposed to Be Our Anniversary

Saturday is coming, and I can feel the weight of it pressing harder on my chest with every passing hour. It would’ve been our 12th wedding anniversary. But this year, there’s no “us.” No celebration. No late-night laughter. No reminiscing over old pictures or whispering promises about forever.

This is the first year we won’t be together on our anniversary. And while I’ve tried to prepare myself—praying for strength, hoping the day would just come and go quickly—my heart still aches. Deeply.

I haven’t cried in almost a week, but today I can feel the tears welling up again. I think I need to let them come. I think my heart needs the release.

Living in the same space as someone who no longer loves you feels like slow, daily heartbreak. Even though he spends very little time at home, the moments he is here are filled with the kind of silence that screams. Every night, I’m reminded that I’m no longer seen in the way I long to be. And I can’t even tell what hurts more—when he ignores me, or when he’s kind out of habit.

Everything just… hurts.

I’ve always loved love stories. The kind where people weather storms and still choose each other. The kind where love wins. I used to believe that would be us. But now, I’m stuck in a story I never wanted to write—one where love wasn’t enough to keep us together.

I know people get divorced all the time. But no one really talks about the emotional toll—the way it drains your soul, your mind, your body. Maybe it’s harder for me because I didn’t choose this. Maybe it’s easier for him because he stopped loving me a long time ago.

And still… I wish my love would just fade too.

The cruelest part? He’s now everything I used to pray he would become—stronger, more present, more grounded. But I’m no longer the woman he wants to share that version of himself with. I forgave him for the things we both got wrong. But while I was fighting to keep us together, he was already preparing to leave.

I don’t think he misses me. I don’t think he thinks about me. When he speaks to me, it feels more like a reflex than a desire. And every time he walks through the door, I’m reminded—our marriage didn’t make it. We didn’t make it.

Part of me just wants Saturday to come and go quickly. I don’t even want to be in his presence that day—it’s too heavy. And I’m mad at myself that I’m not over this yet. That after everything, there’s still a sliver of my heart holding onto a ridiculous hope that he’ll wake up, realize he still loves me, and choose me all over again—like one of those dramatic but beautiful movie endings.

But this isn’t a movie.
This is my reality.

And in this version, I’m the one left behind. He’s already out there living a life that no longer includes me, while I’m here trying to pick up the pieces of what we built.

I just want to be okay again.

I want my mind to stop replaying memories.
I want my heart to stop aching.
I want to move on—not just physically, but emotionally.
I want to choose myself.

I want peace.
I want to find joy again.
I want to experience love again—but this time, starting with me.

So I’m praying—every day—trusting God to carry me through this ache, even when it feels unbearable. And most of all, I’m asking Him to take this longing out of my heart, to remove the hope that keeps me stuck.

Because even though my heart isn’t okay right now… I know that one day, it will be.
And even if I cry this Saturday, I’ll still be choosing me.

Quote:
“Sometimes, the bravest thing you’ll ever do is stop waiting to be chosen… and choose yourself instead.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

He Chose Happiness. I Chose Me.

I’m proud of myself. I haven’t cried in four days.

That might not sound like much, but for me, it’s a significant milestone.

Because honestly? I’m tired of crying. I know it’s part of the healing process—letting emotions out—but I’m emotionally drained.

Lately, I’ve started to feel something unexpected: relief. Not because it doesn’t hurt anymore, but because my heart is beginning to accept that it’s truly over.

It’s tough getting over someone you see every day. Last night, I found myself watching him sleep. For the first time, I didn’t see “my husband.” I just saw a man.

I wasn’t angry or bitter. Just still.

I thought about everything we’ve been through—the good times, the bad. We supported each other through some of the hardest moments in our lives. We held on to each other for emotional support, and we loved each other deeply.

We were different. I was his softness; he was my strength.

In that moment, I felt a wave of vulnerability:

Who will be my strength now?
Who will protect me?
Who will love me?
Will I be alone forever?

It stings knowing he has options. I don’t. I didn’t have a backup plan because I valued our marriage.

But then, I heard God’s voice, gentle and reassuring:

“Girl… you don’t need him. I got you.”
“I’ll be your strength. I’ll carry you when you have no strength left. I’ll bless you. I’ll keep you focused. You will be okay.”

And in that moment—I believed Him.

This morning, as we rose to start the day, he reached out and held me—softly, gently, for a few minutes. It felt so good... but different. It wasn't sexual; it felt like love. It felt like my husband. It felt like my forever.

In that embrace, I felt seen. I felt his presence, his attention, his protection. His scent enveloped me—oh, how I missed the smell of his body close to mine. He held me tightly, reminding me of all the days when his hugs got me through. I depended on his touch to soothe me; it could make anything better, even after he had emotionally hurt me.

That hug held so many unspoken words—it was a sorry. It was an I love you. It was an it's over but I love you.

I broke the hug because I felt myself becoming vulnerable, hoping he would change his mind about leaving. Hoping he would tell me he is still in love with me. Hoping he would still want to be married and be my forever.

But reality set in. He is still leaving. He is just having a soft moment. He does not want to spend his life with me; he wants to live his life on his own terms, without our family. Plain and simple—he is not choosing me.

As I felt my strength returning, I left his embrace, proud of myself for being realistic about the situation. Proud of me for not crying. Proud of me for being strong. Proud of me for not breaking. Proud of me for... she chose herself this time.

I want my husband to be okay too. I admire him for ending this. He chose happiness. He chose himself. He chose a future that suits his needs. I would have stayed, and we would have just been miserable together.

But he doesn’t love me anymore, and I want him to find someone he loves and who loves him back. I love him that much.

Now, I’m looking forward to getting to know myself—what I love, what I want. I’m excited about this new chapter because I won’t let myself down.

I’m choosing me. I’m choosing to love myself. I believe that God has a bright future in store for me.

“Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let go with grace.”

With love and truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

He Came Home at 1AM… But Not to Me

He came home last night… but not to me.

It was around 1AM when I heard the door. For a split second, I wondered if he’d come upstairs. Maybe climb into bed, say something… even just acknowledge my existence. But he didn’t. He went straight downstairs, slept there, and then got up in the morning, got dressed, and left for work like nothing happened.

And that’s when it hit me—he came home, but not to me.

Maybe he hasn’t really been coming home to me for a long time. Emotionally, he’s been gone. I’ve felt it. But something about him physically sleeping in another space made it all so real. It wasn’t just in my head. It wasn’t just a feeling. It was right in front of me. He’s already given his heart, his time, and his energy to someone else.

And honestly… I think what hurts the most is knowing that someone else is getting the best version of him.

I stood beside him through his storms. I supported him financially, emotionally, spiritually—I believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself. I gave grace, over and over again, while he found his way. I poured into him. And now that he’s become everything I thought he could be… he doesn’t want me.

That part still breaks something in me.

I keep asking myself, “Was I that hard to love?” “Am I not enough?” I thought love would be enough. I thought forgiveness and loyalty would be enough. But now I realize—love alone doesn’t save a relationship. Especially not when it’s one-sided.

He told me I didn’t put him first. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I didn’t. But it’s hard to put someone first when you’re constantly recovering from the wounds they’ve left behind. It’s hard to pour love into someone who leaves you feeling empty. I didn’t notice how far apart we were growing. Or maybe I did, and I just didn’t want to accept it.

We became roommates a long time ago.

Now, I’m just seeing it clearly.

He still wears his wedding ring like it means something, but we both know this marriage hasn’t been real for a while. There’s no intimacy. No communication. Just silence and space. And now that he’s emotionally left me, I realize I’ve been left with no choice but to figure out how to finally choose myself.

For years, I gave everything to him. Everything to my children. Everything to my family. And I never gave myself a chance to discover who I am. What I need. What truly makes me happy.

I don’t want to be who I was before him. I want to be better—stronger, wiser, more confident. I want to protect my peace. I want to put me first. I want to love myself in a way I never thought I deserved to be loved. I’m ready to nurture the woman I lost along the way. I’m ready to rebuild.

And even though this hurts in ways I can’t explain…

I’m trusting that God has a plan.

I’m trusting that this heartbreak is not the end—but the beginning.

I’m ready to choose me.

Finally.

“Sometimes the person you’d take a bullet for is the one behind the trigger. But one day, you’ll stop bleeding and start blooming.”

— Unknown

With love + truth,

💔 Aria Monroe 💗

Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

Why Can’t I Let Go Like He Did?

He’s going on with his life like nothing happened. He seems happy. He’s making plans for the future. Smiling. Breathing freely. Looking forward to whatever comes next… and I’m not part of it. Meanwhile, I’m here — sitting in the ruins of everything we built, trying to make sense of how someone I gave so much of myself to can walk away without looking back. I’m the one left sad, stuck, financially uncertain, and emotionally worn out. And I’m trying to keep it together for our child while quietly trying to hold my own heart in one piece.

I’m angry. Not just at him — mostly at myself. I’m mad that I gave so much to someone who doesn’t even think twice about me now. I’m mad that I’m still longing for a touch, a moment, some kind of sign that I mattered — while he’s already moved on like I never existed. Honestly, I think he might already be talking to someone else. The way he moves, the way he acts like I’m invisible, it’s like I was erased. This isn’t just painful. It’s real. It’s raw. And it makes me feel like he still holds power over my emotions — and he doesn’t even care.

I still want him to care. That’s the hardest part. I want him to notice that I’m not okay. I want him to see me again, to hold me like he used to, to feel even a fraction of what I feel for him. But he doesn’t. And no matter how much I wish he did, I can’t change that.

So I ask myself over and over — why can’t I be strong like him? Why can’t I just walk away like he did? Why can’t I just forget I’m married, like he so clearly has? Why can’t I just move on like those years meant nothing? I’m stuck here remembering anniversaries while he’s planning a life without me. Other couples will be giving flowers, gifts, and dinner plans. I’ll be grieving the fact that I’m giving myself the gift of letting go — because that’s all that’s left.

And maybe I am feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I’m just tired of carrying it all. But this grief isn’t just emotional — it’s physical. I feel it in my chest, in my body, in the weight I carry when I try to smile through it. I ask myself if I’m afraid of being alone… and maybe the answer is yes. Because this wasn’t supposed to be my story. This wasn’t supposed to be how my “forever” ended. I believed in us. I believed in marriage. I believed in him.

And now I have nothing else to hold on to but God. And even though I’m trying to trust Him, there are days I still ask why. Why did it have to happen this way? Why wasn’t the love enough? Why didn’t we get the miracle I prayed for?

Every time I hear his truck in the driveway, I feel sick. It’s a reminder that he’s only here to save money before he leaves. He’s not coming home because he loves me — he’s coming home to leave me. And every time I think I’m getting stronger, something knocks me back down. Our anniversary is in ten days, and I already feel it weighing on me. I’ve been thinking about last year… how different it felt. Even then, he didn’t really want to celebrate. He looked bothered just being around me. Like being with me was an obligation, not a choice.

I feel like I have no control in any of this. No control over him. No control over my emotions. No control over my own life right now. And that scares me. I’m spiraling, and I don’t know how to stop it. So I just keep whispering, “God, please hold me.” Because I can’t do this on my own.

And maybe — just maybe — this breakup will end up being the biggest blessing of my life. I keep telling myself that. Maybe it’s just taking time to feel like it. But right now? Right now it just hurts.

I don’t know why I keep choosing him when he’s already chosen himself. I don’t know why I can’t just let go. I don’t know why I’m still holding on to someone who let go of me a long time ago. I keep asking myself why I’m like this — why I love so deeply, why I stay so long, why I’m still hoping for something that’s clearly gone. And maybe the answer is simple… because that’s just who I am.

I’m soft. I’m loyal. I love hard. And even though this pain is breaking me wide open… maybe it’s also teaching me something.

Maybe I’m not weak for feeling this way.

Maybe I’m just finally becoming the version of me who will love herself the way no one else ever did.

I don’t know how to let go yet.

But I know I want to.

And that’s a start.

“She wasn’t weak for loving deeply.

She was brave for surviving the loss of what she thought would last forever.”

With love + truth,

💔 Aria Monroe 💗

Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

This Fire Wasn’t My Choice… But I’m Walking Through It Anyway

This morning, my chest felt tight again. That familiar ache — like my heart is trying to break quietly so I can still function. I’ve felt it every day for months now. But today, something shifted. I realized I’ve been focusing so much on losing my marriage that I haven’t stopped to grieve what it really means.

I’m not just losing a relationship. I’m losing the life I built around someone I believed would never leave. I’m losing security. Partnership. Shared responsibilities. Shared dreams.

Now I’m standing in the rubble, trying to figure out how to survive with half the income and double the weight. I still have a family to raise. A home to keep. A life to rebuild. And the reality that keeps punching me in the chest is this: I’m a single mom again.

And yes, I’ve done it before. But this time, I’m walking into it already tired.

Before marriage, I was a machine. I worked overtime, went to school full time, paid bills, kissed boo-boos, made dinner, and stayed up late trying to give my kids a life they didn’t have to recover from. I didn’t expect help. I didn’t have time to fall apart. I just… did what I had to do.

Even in the beginning of our marriage, I was the one holding it down. I was the breadwinner. I carried the weight. And then things shifted — he grew financially, and for once, we had stability. It was quiet. Comfortable. For the first time in years, I was able to breathe.

I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I had balance. I could log off at 5 p.m. and not feel guilty. I didn’t have to grind 24/7 just to keep the lights on. And I let my guard down. I let myself believe I didn’t have to do it all alone anymore.

But now?

Now I’m back at square one — and this time, I don’t feel strong. I feel betrayed.

I trusted someone to stay. To be the one person I didn’t have to survive from. I built my life around that belief. And now that he’s leaving, I’m scrambling to find the version of me that used to be able to carry it all.

Where did she go?

I don’t want to find her again. I don’t want to become her again. But I have to — because life isn’t waiting for me to catch up.

And it hurts like hell.

This breakup is shattering me in ways I didn’t even know were possible. But it’s also teaching me what I should’ve always known: you have to have your own back. Always. No matter how good it feels. No matter how secure it looks. No matter how long they’ve stayed.

Because the moment you believe someone else will carry you… you forget how to carry yourself.

Now, I’m being forced to evolve — not gently, not gradually, but violently. Through heartbreak. Through fear. Through complete loss of control.

There’s no “we” anymore. No partner. No backup. There’s just… me.

Me. Standing in the middle of the fire, trying not to collapse under the weight of everything I still have to hold together.

I’m supposed to be strong for my kids. For my family. For myself. But inside? I feel like I’m crumbling. I feel like I’ve failed — at marriage, at love, at stability, at life. I feel like he looked at everything I gave and still decided I wasn’t enough.

And the truth that haunts me the most is this: Maybe I never really chose myself… so how could I expect anyone else to?

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to walk through. And I hate it. I hate that I have no choice. I hate that I still love him. I hate that I let myself believe he would stay. I hate that I’m not ready… but I still have to rise anyway.

And through all of that hate — there’s one constant:

God has never left me.

Not once. Not when I was a struggling single mom. Not when I was questioning my worth. Not even now, when everything around me feels like it’s burning to the ground.

God is still here. And maybe… I am too.

Choosing myself now means learning how to love a woman who is completely shattered — and still trying. It means believing I’m worthy even when the world feels like it’s screaming that I’m not. It means forgiving myself. Holding myself. Speaking life over myself. It means realizing that what people think of me isn’t more powerful than what I believe about me.

It means putting myself first… after a lifetime of being last.

Choosing me is the bravest, loneliest, most painful thing I’ve ever had to do. But I’m doing it. Because no one else will.

This fire? I didn’t ask for it. But I’m walking through it anyway.

> “She didn’t ask for this fire. But she learned how to survive it. And now she’s learning how to rise from it.”

With love + truth,

💔 Aria Monroe 💗

Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

The Pictures Said “Forever” — But They Didn’t Show the Pain

This month would’ve marked twelve years of marriage. And just like clockwork, Facebook memories have started to pop up.

Photos of us smiling. Embracing. Laughing on vacation. Posts filled with heart emojis and promises of forever. Comments from friends saying how lucky we were. How they hoped to find a love like ours.

And looking at them now —
I see a woman who was trying so hard to hold it all together.
I see a smile stretched wide across my face.
But what I don’t see… is the pain hiding behind it.

Because those pictures didn’t show the moments when I was being slowly broken down.

They didn’t show the yelling. The name-calling. The emotional bruises that never left a mark on my skin, but deeply scarred my soul.

They didn’t show me walking on eggshells in my own home — never knowing what mood he’d be in, what small thing would set him off, what version of him I’d be met with that day. His temper wasn’t just quick… it was cruel. And I learned to adapt. So did my kids.

He never hit me physically.
But emotionally?
He hit me over and over again.

And I stayed.

I stayed because I held onto the good moments.
Because in between the storms, there were sunny days. We laughed. We held each other. We went on dates. We dreamed together. We made love. We raised a family. And I kept chasing that version of us — the one that showed up sometimes. The one that reminded me why I fell in love with him in the first place.

But the truth is…
We started dying long before the conversations about separation ever happened.

We stopped taking pictures.
We stopped posting about each other.
We changed our profile photos from us… to just ourselves.
We started living separately while still under the same roof — finding happiness away from each other instead of with each other.

We weren’t partners anymore.
We were two people coexisting in the memory of a marriage that no longer existed.

And when he finally said the words — that he wanted to live his life without me — I wasn’t shocked. Deep down, I knew. I just wasn’t ready to face it.

Because he was strong enough to choose himself first.
And I had to be strong enough to stop choosing someone who wouldn’t choose me back.

I’ve never been good with change I didn’t initiate. I settle into situations, even painful ones. I adapt. I get used to the cycles — because even chaos can start to feel familiar when it’s all you’ve known.

But this?
This time, I don’t get to stay.
This time, I’m being pushed to finally choose myself.

And it hurts like hell.

Because I gave him everything I had. I molded myself to fit the cracks. I silenced my needs. I showed up with love over and over again, even when I wasn’t met with the same effort. And now, with nothing left to give him… I have to find a way to give everything back to me.

But the woman I used to be — she’s gone.
She didn’t survive this.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because the version of me that’s rising now? She’s softer and stronger. She doesn’t shrink to be chosen. She doesn’t settle for affection that comes with pain. She’s learning to love herself in the spaces where she once felt unworthy. She’s rebuilding. From scratch. With tears in her eyes and a fire in her spirit.

Every tear I cry is not weakness.
It’s release.
It’s healing.
It’s proof that I’m moving forward.
One breath at a time. One truth at a time. One brave, beautiful choice at a time.

So yes — this month hurts.
These memories sting.
But I’m no longer mourning just the marriage.
I’m mourning the version of me who thought being loved meant being broken.

She deserved better.
I deserve better.

And this time… I’m not waiting for someone to choose me.
This time, I choose me.

“Just because a picture is perfect, doesn’t mean the story behind it was. Smiles can lie. But healing doesn’t.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

When You’re Lying Next to Someone Whose Love Is Gone

There’s a kind of heartbreak no one prepares you for — the kind where you’re still lying in the same bed, still under the same roof, but the love that once lived between you is… gone. Quietly. Slowly. Almost unnoticeably at first. Until one day, you roll over in the middle of the night and realize you’re next to someone who feels more like a roommate than a partner. Someone whose love has already packed up and left, even if their body hasn’t.

That’s the kind of pain I’ve been living with.

We still sleep side by side, but the connection is long gone. The silence isn’t peaceful — it’s heavy. We don’t fight. We don’t scream. But we also don’t talk. There’s no laughter, no inside jokes, no warmth. It’s just… stillness. Distance. An emotional gap that keeps stretching between us no matter how physically close we are.

When he’s not home, I feel a strange sense of peace. Not because I don’t love him. Not because I don’t miss what we used to be. But because his absence gives my heart room to breathe. I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to feel the sting of being ignored or the ache of being unseen. I don’t have to notice how his eyes brighten when he talks to the dog, but go dim when they meet mine. I don’t have to wonder if his heart has found a new place to rest — one that isn’t me.

I used to be his everything. His person. The one he looked at like I was magic. And now? I feel like a shadow in the home we built together.

Some nights, I lay there wondering what happened. Wondering what changed. Wondering if I was ever enough, or if I was just temporary comfort on the way to whatever he truly wanted. I question if I could’ve done more. If I should’ve held on tighter, or loosened my grip sooner.

And then there are the rings.

I still wear them, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because taking them off makes everything too real. Maybe because they remind me of the vows we made and the hope I once had. But lately, they feel heavier. Like they’re holding memories I no longer recognize. I look down at my hand and ask myself what it will feel like to finally remove them. What I’ll do with that space on my finger. And deeper still — what I’ll do with the space in my heart. The space that was once filled with promises, security, love… and now feels hollow.

I always thought my husband would protect me — not just physically, but emotionally. That he’d be my safe space, my soft place to land. But instead, the man I trusted to guard my heart slowly became the one who wounded it most.

That realization has been the hardest to accept.

Because it wasn’t just one moment of betrayal. It was death by a thousand cuts. Each cold shoulder. Each conversation left unsaid. Each time he stopped noticing me, listening to me, choosing me.

And through it all… I’ve still been praying.

In the beginning, I prayed for him. For us. For God to fix it. To bring him back to me. To help him see me again. I prayed for the love to return. For the spark to reignite. For the marriage I believed in to somehow be restored.

But now… my prayers have shifted.

I still pray every day. But now I pray for peace. I pray for the courage to let go of what’s already let go of me. I pray for clarity, for healing, for the strength to choose myself — even when it hurts. Even when I still miss him. Even when the memory of who we used to be still breaks my heart.

Because slowly, I’m realizing something I wish I had seen sooner: I don’t have to keep holding on to someone who stopped holding me a long time ago.

I don’t have to keep betraying myself to keep a marriage that no longer reflects love.

I don’t have to wear rings that symbolize a promise he’s no longer keeping.

And I definitely don’t have to stay in a bed that makes me feel lonelier than sleeping alone ever could.

This isn’t about giving up. It’s about waking up.

It’s about realizing that staying in something that’s already emotionally over isn’t strength — it’s survival. And I don’t want to just survive anymore. I want to live. I want to breathe deeply again. I want to laugh without it catching in my throat. I want to feel peace in my own skin. I want to feel seen, loved, chosen — even if, for now, that love comes from me alone.

I still wear the rings today.

But I know the time is coming when I’ll take them off. Maybe with trembling hands. Maybe through tears. Maybe in silence.

But when I do… it won’t just be the end of a marriage.

It’ll be the beginning of me coming back home to myself.

Because yes, I loved him. Deeply. Fully. Faithfully. But now… I’m learning to love me just as deeply. And that love? That’s the one I won’t lose again.

“The hardest part isn’t letting go of him. It’s letting go of the version of me who accepted less than I deserved.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

He Didn’t Choose Me. So This Time, I Chose Me.

I used to think I’d never be able to say the words out loud. That if I did, the world would see me as a failure. A woman who couldn’t keep her man. A woman who lost at love. A woman who wasn’t enough.

But I’m learning now—I didn’t fail. I stayed too long in a story that no longer belonged to me.

The truth is, he cheated on me.

Even before I found out, I could feel the shift. Our relationship had already started fading. The calls stopped. The texts changed. He used to call me multiple times a day, just to check in or say he loved me. He used to look at me like I was magic. Now he barely looked at me at all, and when he did, it was with eyes that saw me as a friend—not as his wife.

I kept asking him if something was going on. If he was seeing someone else. He said no every time.

But something in my gut knew. And one day, when I saw his Apple Watch sitting on the counter, I looked through it. I had never looked through his phone in all our twelve years of marriage. But that day… I needed the truth.

And there it was. A message that read, “Good morning baby doll.”
Just like he used to say to me.

The thread continued with “I love yous,” “I miss yous,” and “We’re each other’s forever.”

As I stood there, stunned, the messages began disappearing—right before my eyes—because he was erasing them on his phone.

I confronted him immediately. I asked him who she was, and he lied, saying she was just a client. But I knew. I knew she wasn’t just a client.

I had never seen him so speechless.

And I had never felt so gutted.

The man I loved, the one I gave my loyalty, my body, my sacrifices to—chose someone else. And even after that betrayal, I begged him to stay. I begged him to choose me.

That was five months ago.

In that time, I’ve tried so hard to become more of what he wanted. I cooked more. I became more available sexually. I made changes—trying to find my way back into a heart that had already locked its door.

But it didn’t matter. Because he had already chosen himself.

And I was begging to be loved by a man who had let go of me long before I realized it.

I have been praying to God every day—begging Him to take the pain away and help me feel worthy again. At first, I prayed for God to change his heart, to bring him back to me, to help him choose me. But now… now my prayers are different. Now I pray for peace. For strength. For healing. I ask God to help me love myself again and stand in my truth. I’ve come to understand that we were never meant to be forever—we were meant to be a lesson, a chapter, a placeholder. The more I pray, the more I accept that I was never unworthy—I was just giving my love to someone who couldn’t carry it. And now I know—I deserve to choose me.

Now that I’ve had time to sit with it, I see everything more clearly. I sacrificed so much. I sacrificed my self-respect. My peace. My joy. My voice. My boundaries. I twisted myself into shapes I never liked to make him happy.

But none of it brought him back.

Because love—true love—doesn’t require you to betray yourself just to be chosen.

He’s moving out in a few months, and strangely, I feel relief. Not because I’m not still hurting—I am. But because I’m no longer clinging to something that was never mine to hold on to.

I want a love that doesn’t make me beg. I want a love that sees me, that holds me, that feels like home. I want to be someone’s choice—not their convenience.

He didn’t choose me.
So this time, I chose me.

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.

When He Loved Me

There was a time when I knew I was loved. Deeply. Fully. Without question.

I’ve been sitting in quiet reflection lately… trying to figure out when it all changed. And honestly, I’m not even sure. But what I do know — with everything in me — is that once upon a time, he loved me with his whole heart.

I remember how his light hazel eyes sparkled when he looked at me, like I was the only woman in the world. There was something in the way he studied me — not just my body, but my soul. He memorized my curves, my laugh, the way I moved, the way I spoke. I had never felt so wanted. So seen.

He started paying for everything right away. I didn’t have to ask — he just provided. As a single mom, that kind of love felt like a miracle. My children’s fathers hadn’t even done half of what he did effortlessly. And he didn’t have much — but what he had, he gave. Without hesitation. Without complaint. That kind of selfless giving made me feel worthy. Special. Chosen.

We talked for hours, made passionate love, and wanted to be near each other constantly. I was juggling work, school, motherhood, and still — he didn’t complain. He just showed up. Wherever I needed him, he was there. We got married after dating for just a few months. I had sworn I would never get married again — my first marriage had been painful, short, and full of disappointment. But with him? I felt safe. He gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time — hope.

He loved me. He loved my kids. He took care of us like we were his. And maybe that’s why it hurts so deeply now.

Because that version of him doesn’t exist anymore.

After we got married, things started to shift. He began raising his voice more. Arguing became frequent. Most of it centered around how we raised the kids — he thought I was too soft, and I thought he was too harsh. And maybe we were both right. I tried to compensate for his anger by being extra lenient. I thought I could create balance, but I was really just surviving the chaos.

His tone changed. His words cut deeper. And I started shutting down emotionally. I had a miscarriage a year into our marriage — it broke me. It broke him, too. But in very different ways. I felt like I had failed him. That I had failed us. But looking back now, I think it was God protecting me from something I didn’t yet understand. He wasn’t ready. Not emotionally. Not mentally. Not spiritually. Not for a baby. And not for the weight of fatherhood.

We became distant. We’d go months without intimacy. I didn’t want to be touched. Not because I didn’t want him, but because I was holding so much pain that I didn’t know how to give anymore. And he didn’t know how to receive.

Still… he gave me his checks. He always handed over what he had. He always gave me his last. And I worked. Hard. So many overtime hours just to keep us afloat — especially when he lost jobs or walked away from them. I carried so much, and I think I did it because I wanted to be chosen. I wanted to believe he saw me. I wanted to believe he’d one day give back the kind of love I gave freely, over and over and over again.

He didn’t.

He ruined so many trips with his temper. I have memories of standing in hotel rooms, crying, wondering how something that started out so beautifully had become this. The man who once made me feel like the most special woman in the world — was now the man who made me feel small in moments I needed him the most.

I lost myself. Piece by piece.

And maybe… just maybe… I stayed because I was starving for love. I thought if I just held on tighter, if I just gave a little more — he’d come back to the man I married. But the truth is, I’ve been married alone for a long time. I just didn’t want to admit it.

Now that it’s over, all I have left are memories. Of who he used to be. Of how he used to love me.

And I guess that’s what I’m grieving most…
The version of him that no longer exists — and the version of me that believed it would last forever.

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.