Maybe you’ve done this, too:

You look back at a relationship that didn’t work out and at first, it’s easy to focus on everything they did wrong.

Their distance.

Their choices.

The way they didn’t show up.

It’s a kind of emotional muscle memory: when something hurts, we instinctively point to the source of the pain. We tell ourselves, if they had been more present, if they had communicated better, if they had really loved me, then maybe it would’ve worked. Maybe we would still be together.

But at some point—if we’re willing—we begin to look a little deeper.

And we start to realize, I played a part in that, too.

This was one of the hardest truths I had to face. Not because I wanted to blame myself, but because I wanted to grow.

When I was married, I spent a lot of time believing that if my husband just changed, everything would be okay.

If he listened more.

If he showed up differently.

If he could just meet me where I was.

I told myself I was doing everything I could to make it work. I convinced myself I was the one trying.

But underneath all that effort was a quiet loop playing in the background—one where I was stuck in the role of the victim and he was cast as the problem.

Blaming him.

Waiting on him.

Trying to fix him.

All because it felt easier than examining my own patterns.

I genuinely couldn’t see it any other way for a long time. The loop of blame had become so familiar, it almost felt like truth. But eventually—years after we divorced—I reached out and apologized.

I said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t find these words sooner.”

Because I finally saw how much I had contributed to the dynamic.

Not because I did something dramatic or cruel.

But because I was unaware.

Because I didn’t know how to name my needs.

Because I held him responsible for pain that didn’t begin with him.

Because I held him responsible for the complete breakdown of our marriage.

And once I saw that, I couldn’t unsee it.

The heartbreak wasn’t just about him.

It was about all the unspoken expectations, the unexamined patterns, and the weight we put on each other to heal things we couldn’t name.

That clarity changed everything for me.

It showed me how much of our suffering comes from what goes unsaid—from the needs we silence, the fears we suppress, the stories we cling to in order to feel justified or safe.

And here’s the truth:

Not everyone looks back and sees their part. Some people never do. They stay locked in the version of the story where they were the one who was wronged.

And maybe that’s the only version they’re willing—or able—to tell.

But you?

You have a choice.

You can choose to look inward. To ask yourself the harder questions:

How did I show up?

What did I avoid?

What did I not know how to say?

Where was fear running the show?

This doesn’t make you wrong.

It makes you honest.

It makes you self-aware.

And it opens the door to something better next time.

Because here’s the thing most people forget:

Self-responsibility is not the same as self-blame.

It’s not about taking on what isn’t yours. It’s about reclaiming your power. And once you do, you start relating differently.

You stop asking someone else to complete you, fix you, or carry your pain.

You start expressing your needs clearly.

You build relationships that are rooted in presence, not performance.

So here’s the question I want to leave you with:

Is there a relationship in your life—past or present—where you’ve only been telling one side of the story?

What might shift if you looked at it from another angle?

Because that shift, that moment of reckoning with your own humanity…

Well, it might be what sets you free.

~