The Version of You That Love Consumed

No one tells you that love can slowly erase you.

Not in a dramatic way. Not all at once.

It happens in small choices. In adaptations. In the parts of yourself you set down because love felt more important at the time.

You become easier. Quieter. More accommodating.

You learn how to anticipate needs before they’re spoken. How to soften your edges. How to make room — even when you’re already full.

And at first, it feels like devotion.

But somewhere along the way, you stop recognizing yourself.

You can’t remember when your needs became optional. When your energy stopped being a consideration. When loving someone started to mean losing pieces of who you were.

This isn’t because you were weak. It’s because you were generous.

And generosity, without boundaries, has a cost.

Especially for people who love deeply. Who attune quickly. Who learned early that connection required self-sacrifice.

You didn’t disappear because you didn’t matter. You disappeared because you believed love meant adaptation — even when it hurt.

The exhaustion shows up later.

When your body can’t keep up with the version of you that love required. When resentment sneaks in where devotion used to live. When rest feels unfamiliar because you don’t know who you are without giving.

And that can be terrifying.

Because if love consumed that version of you… who are you without it?

But here’s the truth we avoid:

Love that requires your disappearance isn’t sustainable. And love that adapts to include you is not selfish — it’s healthy.

You are not meant to be the supporting character in your own life. You are not meant to shrink to be loved. You are not meant to exhaust yourself just to keep connection intact.

The version of you that love consumed deserves compassion — not shame.

They did the best they could with what they believed love was supposed to look like.

And now, there’s an invitation.

To let love change shape. To take up space again. To learn who you are when love no longer asks you to disappear.

Because love doesn’t have to cost you yourself.

It can meet you where you are — whole, present, and still worthy of care.