Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

On relationships, running, and remembering how to be myself

I had a long-term relationship end during the pandemic. It broke me in a way I didn’t fully understand at the time. We were living together, both working from home. He went to visit his family. And then--just like that--he ended things over text.

What the hell just happened?

I didn’t have the words for it, so I did what I’ve always done when something hurts: I shut it down. I kept moving. I numbed myself with work, small talk, and silence. For someone like me, who grew up learning that emotions weren’t safe, this was muscle memory. That was my normal reaction to hurt.

But numbing doesn’t mean healing. And after enough time passed, I couldn’t keep pretending I was fine. Because deep down, I didn’t want a repeat--not of that heartbreak, and not of the old pattern where I ignored my own needs and called it strength. So I started intentionally spending 30 minutes looking at old photos and journaling. (You can read more about that process here: The Quiet Work of Becoming Me.)

You know what wasn’t normal for me? Being in a kind, supportive relationship. That unfamiliarity has followed me into this newer chapter of my life--into a healthier relationship, a stable job, a home filled with laughter--and I’ve still been waiting for it all to fall apart. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And I hate that. I hate how hard it is to trust what’s good when you’ve trained your body to brace for what’s bad.

It reminds me most of running, though swimming also comes up.

When I first started training for half marathons, I didn’t understand what people meant when they talked about the runner’s high. I kept waiting for it to arrive like magic. But all I felt for the first five miles was effort. Striving. My mind looped through every possible complaint: My legs are tired. My pace is too slow. Why am I even doing this?

It wasn’t until around mile eight--sometimes later--that something would shift. My thoughts would quiet. My breath would steady. I’d stop trying to run and just run. Not because it suddenly became easy, but because I stopped resisting it. I settled in.

That’s what healing has started to feel like.

I’m still not all the way there, but I’m learning how to settle in. I’m learning how to breathe through my doubts instead of running from them. I’m learning how to show up--messy, tired, trying--and trust that it’s enough. That I’m enough.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how it took me until my mid-30s to learn how to swim. And how that wasn’t a failure--just a different timeline.

I still remember my first lesson: thrashing in water, panicked and gasping, until I finally found my footing. When I got a hold of myself, I asked my instructor what she had been saying. She looked directly at me and said kindly, “I was telling you to stand up. You’re in three feet of water.”

And I did.

That moment lives in me.

Sometimes, I forget that I don’t have to thrash. I don’t have to brace. I can stand. I can float. I can run at a pace that is mine.

I used to think relationships were about performance. About doing the right things so someone would stay. But now, I think real love is about presence. Can I be here, as I am? Can I trust that I won’t disappear if I stop striving?

This is what I’m practicing. In my relationship. In my runs. In myself.

And you know what else?

There’s joy here, too.

Even while healing. Even while learning how to trust again. Even while still sometimes bracing for something to go wrong--there’s joy.

Running still kind of sucks, if I’m being honest. But running with a friend? Laughing through the miles, pushing each other up hills, swapping stories mid-stride? That’s magic. That’s joy in motion.

Swimming is still hard. But taking classes alongside other adults who are learning too--who are just as unsure, just as determined, just as brave in their own quiet ways? That’s joy, too. Shared struggle, shared laughter, shared breakthroughs.

You don’t have to wait until you’re fully healed to feel joy. You don’t have to earn it.

Find your people.
The ones who remind you you’re not alone.
The ones who make you laugh in mile three.
The ones who float beside you in the shallow end and cheer when you kick all the way across.

Healing and joy are not opposites. They are companions. And both are better when you don’t do it alone.

This season of my life isn’t marked by big declarations. It’s marked by choosing to stay.
To show up for hard conversations.
To sit still when my old instincts tell me to run.
To lace up my shoes on a Saturday morning and remind myself that sometimes the only way to get to mile eight is to make it through mile two.

So if you’ve ever felt behind, or broken, or late to the kind of love or life you wanted--please hear me when I say: you’re not.

You’re not late.
You’re just in the middle of becoming.

And becoming takes time. You have time. 🧡

As for me, I’m still learning. Still settling in. But these days, I trust the ground beneath me a little more.

And when I start to panic, I try to remember: You’re in three feet of water. You can stand.