Some People Leave. Some People Help You Stay Standing.

This one’s for the girls who didn’t leave. For the ones who saw the shift — the silence, the sharp edges, the missing sparkle — and stayed anyway. The ones who kept texting even when the replies were slow. Who called. Who showed up. Who didn’t take the distance personally because they sensed something deeper. Anyone who’s been through it — depression, trauma, heartbreak, burnout — knows that it changes you. Not in a dramatic, movie-montage kind of way. But in quiet, disorienting, exhausting ways. You stop laughing the same. You isolate. You shut down. You snap at people. You avoid eye contact. You pull away from the things that used to bring you joy because nothing really feels joyful anymore.

You become someone else. And in that in-between space — the ache, the numbness, the version of you that’s barely surviving — a lot of people leave. Some do it gently. Some ghost. Some walk away with a speech about how “you’ve changed” or how they “miss the old you.” As if you don’t miss her too. As if you didn’t notice her slipping away every single day. They justify it. They explain it away. They say it’s boundaries or self-preservation or timing. And maybe it is. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Because when you’re at your lowest, you don’t need someone to fix you. You need someone who doesn’t flinch. To the ones who stayed, you didn’t have to. You could’ve walked too. You could’ve said, “she’s not who she used to be” and left.

But instead, you:

• Checked in
• Sat with me in silence
• Didn’t make me explain my sadness
• Loved me when I was hard to be around

You stayed when I was angry. When I was flaky. When I didn’t return calls. When I lashed out. When I forgot birthdays. When I bailed on plans. When I wasn’t fun, or soft, or consistent. When I wasn’t me. You stayed. And I know that wasn’t easy. I know it cost you something. I know I didn’t always say thank you. So here it is: Thank you.

Thank you for not needing the best version of me in order to stay. Thank you for loving the version of me I didn’t even like. Thank you for reminding me — quietly, consistently — that I was still worth loving. This isn’t a guilt trip to those who left. It’s not bitterness, it’s clarity. Some people leave. Some people help you stay standing. Some people remind you who you are when you forget. And those are the ones you hold onto — with both hands.

Still healing. Still here. Still so grateful for you.