Pieces I Gave Away, Wholeness I Found Within
In a world that thrives on taking, I’ve always been a giver. You know the type—the friend who listens without judgment, the colleague who stays late to help you meet a deadline, the partner who believes in love so deeply that she’d sacrifice everything to make it work.
People see me as fiercely independent, resilient, a “rock” who’s always there when needed. But beneath that strength lies a heart that has given itself away in too many pieces, a soul that knows the weight of loving too much.
I’m in my thirties now, well-established in my career, comfortable financially, and by all outward appearances, “successful.” But love? Love has been a battlefield. Growing up in a quiet town in India, I watched my mother and grandmother give endlessly to their families. Their love was woven from patience, sacrifice, and the silent strength of putting others first. And somewhere in that, I learned my own version of love—to give without boundaries, without conditions, without expecting anything in return.
In my twenties, I loved hard. I fell into relationships with an open heart, unafraid and almost naïve. I thought, If I love them deeply enough, they’ll stay. They’ll understand. I poured myself into these men, giving my time, my energy, even my hard-earned money, believing that if I was just good enough, loyal enough, selfless enough, they would see me, they would stay. But instead, they drifted away, one after another, leaving me with nothing but questions: Was I too much? Was I not enough?
One relationship in particular brought me to my knees. He was charming, intelligent, driven—everything I thought I wanted. For the first time, I felt seen, or at least I thought I did. I trusted him with everything, opening up in ways I’d never dared before. He’d say the right things, make the right promises, and I would believe him, even when he slowly stopped showing up. Even when he took more than he gave, I kept justifying it, telling myself, Love means giving, doesn’t it?
By the time I realized how much I’d given and how little he’d returned, I was exhausted, hollowed out, as though I’d been slowly drained over the years. I’d lost sight of myself, buried under layers of compromise and patience that he never saw, that he never even asked for. And when he left, without a second thought, I was left with nothing but an empty space where my self-worth used to be.
The truth of it hit me hard, but it took even longer for me to accept it. In a world that often rewards those who take, I had convinced myself that my value lay in giving. I thought if I could just be enough for someone else, I’d find wholeness, validation, purpose. But the more I gave, the more pieces of myself I lost. And when I was finally alone, I realised I’d given away parts of myself that I would never get back.
For months, I tried to rebuild, to make sense of what had happened. I started asking myself questions I’d been avoiding: Who was I without anyone else? Why was my love always conditional on what I could give, and never on what I deserved to receive? For the first time, I wasn’t looking outward for answers. I was looking inward, forced to confront the loneliness, the wounds I’d been ignoring for so long.
The journey was raw, messy, and often painful. Friends and family would ask if I was okay, and I’d smile and say yes.
But inside, I was learning the hardest lesson of all: that I had built my sense of worth on a foundation that crumbled every time someone walked away. I’d spent my life giving to everyone else, believing it would make me worthy of love. But I had forgotten to give to myself.
Slowly, I began setting boundaries. I said “no” more often, stopped apologizing for wanting my own space, my own peace. Some people were taken aback. They asked what had changed, told me I seemed “different,” maybe even “self-centered.” But I stayed firm. I was done sacrificing my own happiness for others who would never do the same for me.
It hasn’t been easy. There are days when I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, when the old habit of giving unconditionally tugs at me, whispering that maybe if I just tried harder, I’d find that love I’d been searching for. But then I remember how far I’ve come, the peace I feel in choosing myself, and I hold my ground.
I still believe in love, but I’m done with the kind that asks me to shrink, to settle, to lose myself just to keep someone else. I know now that the right love, when it comes, won’t need me to prove my worth through self-sacrifice. It won’t drain me or diminish me. It will meet me where I am, as I am, with nothing held back and nothing taken away.
In a world that prizes taking, loving deeply is a radical act. And choosing to love yourself first? That’s the greatest act of rebellion. I may still be that woman who gives, but I give to myself now too. I fill my own cup first, knowing that self-love isn’t selfish—it’s survival. And in this new chapter of my life, that’s enough.
I haven’t found my “happy ending” yet, but I’ve found peace in choosing me, in knowing that love starts here, within. And for the first time in my life, I’m no longer waiting to be completed. I am whole, I am enough, and I’m here, ready to see where this journey takes me—this time, with an open heart and an unbreakable sense of self.
