why you should choose celibacy

why healing sometimes means walking alone

Last year — exactly one year ago — I wrote “why you should be having more sex”. I was fresh in heartbreak, confused, hurting, trying to decode the wild web of love, loss, and healing.

But the piece was never really about sex. It was about connection. It was about not depriving yourself of softness, especially if it makes you feel emotionally safe. And most of all, it was about surrender — letting go, falling so deeply in love with yourself that time finally gets to do its job.

And now, one year later, I’m back here. Same theme. Different clarity.

The advice I gave then still holds truth — but something was missing.
I wasn’t able to break the attachment.
I wasn’t able to surrender.
I wasn’t able to let go.

This situation — this story — lasted way too long. A slow unraveling of something I wanted to believe in. I held on so tightly to the story of what we could be that I lost sight of what actually was. My mind was clogged.

Maybe you know this cycle.

There’s a wound.
There’s a mirror.
The highs are euphoric, the lows are hell.
You start hiding your evening plans from friends because you already know they won’t approve. You have the best night of your life and go home crying — because the withdrawal is real.
Same as heroin.

There’s a Japanese proverb: “The longer you stay on the wrong train, the more expensive the ticket to go back home will be.” And it’s not talking about trains.

When life feels unstable, we return to the familiar — even when it hurts. We replay patterns that soothe the deeper wound: the one that says you’re only worthy if you’re chosen.

But one day, without fireworks or fanfare, something shifts. You start to feel safe in yourself again. And that’s when you realize — it wasn’t connection. It was a dopamine hit. You were choosing inconsistency. You were self-abandoning. You were shrinking.

And now, you choose yourself.
You keep choosing yourself.
No matter how hard it is.

And that means saying no to dating apps, even when you call it “just looking for connection.” You know that’s not the work. You’re scared to be lonely. You’re still seeking validation.
And that’s not a good place to begin.

This chapter is over.
You are choosing peace for a new one.
And in order to evolve into the best version of yourself, you need to do it alone.

You’ll be tempted to romanticize the good parts, to forget the lows. But you’ll keep walking. You’ll clean out old energy, release unhealthy attachments, and create space.

Last week, my therapist said something that cracked open a new layer for me:
“Now that the attachment is gone — what will you do with that time? Instead of looking for the person you want to marry, how will you become that person?”

That question keeps echoing.

If I’ve ever loved and lost the fight to that love, I’ve gained clarity:
It wasn’t the path to follow.

Because love — true love — should never require you to fight, climb mountains, or burn your toes. Love is not simple. It never will be. But a love that nearly destroys you is not a love I wish to experience again.

If you look closely, you’ll find that love often shows up in three forms:
A mirror, fireworks, or a candle.

A mirror reflects you — your wounds, your patterns, your most triggering challenges. A love that mirrors you invites growth, if you're willing to look long enough. But mirrors can be painful. They demand honesty. They demand healing.

Fireworks are thrilling. They explode. They light the sky, fast and loud — and then they fade.
May no heartbreak ever lead you to chase fireworks.
Because if you keep lighting the sky, you’ll keep chasing stars, never truly landing.

And then, there’s the candle.
A quiet flame. Steady. Warm. It doesn’t explode — it endures.
It lights a room gently, without needing to be the center of attention.

Love like that doesn’t feel like war — or even like fate. It feels like home.
Like a long friendship that warms you over time.
It’s the calm after the storm.
The hand that holds yours without asking you to let go of yourself.

You’ll recognize it in how it invites rest, not restlessness.
In the laughter that lingers.
In the silence that soothes.
In the ordinary moments that suddenly feel sacred.

Real love doesn’t shout to be seen.
It hums, soft and certain.

And when you find it, you won’t feel the need to chase, run, or prove.
You’ll simply breathe easier.
Because true love doesn’t ask you to lose yourself — it meets you exactly where you are, and walks beside you.
Like a candlelit path.
Like a long friendship.
Like home.

And home — real home — can be anywhere, as long as you’re standing in a place of abundance.
Not lack.
Not seeking.
Not craving.
Not wishing for anything to be different.

Home will come to you when you’re so rooted in yourself that you can hold hands with your destiny.
Home will come when you stop bargaining with your worth.
When you breathe into stillness.
When you let yourself feel everything — fully, freely.
Even the ache. Even the numbness. Even the how could I not see this for so long?

Let yourself feel. Whatever comes up, it’s okay.

Because the moment you do — you’re no longer stuck.
You’re moving. Healing. Becoming.

And now I know:

Home is coming.