It often shocks people when I say this, but I love Taylor Swift. I think her lyrics are absolute masterpieces, and I’m fully convinced that she’s just as quirky as the rest of us. However, what I think has made Taylor into the celebrity she is today is the way her lyrics are so relatable.

I, I, I persist and resist the temptation to ask you
If one thing had been different
Would everything be different today?

I’ve spent years asking myself that question about nearly every aspect of my life. Some questions—like “What if I’d come out sooner?”—can be dismissed with a hug from my kids. Others—like “What if I’d taken Emily to the ER just one day earlier?”—are much harder to dismantle.

The reality is, I’ll never have the answers. Life is this terrible combination of a “pick-a-path” book and a row of dominoes—each choice creating a ripple effect that can’t be predicted or undone.

And yet, these past two weeks, I’ve found myself stuck in the “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.” Caught between the life I’ve built and the intrusive thought that maybe I’ve ruined it all.

It’s strange (my therapist would probably suggest a better word), because for the past eight months, I’ve been doing the hard work. I’ve slowly rebuilt my self-esteem. Most days, I can name things I genuinely like about myself. I cook for myself, take myself places, and have even learned to find peace in silence.

But all it took was one day. Two unrelated conversations. Two people I care about deeply. And suddenly, everything I’ve built collapsed beneath me. I wasn’t even directly involved in either situation, but somehow, I convinced myself that just the mention of my name was enough to cause chaos. That my mere existence had created problems for people who didn’t deserve pain.

If you boil it down, it’s a warped form of magical thinking—the belief that somehow, I hold the power to ruin the lives of people around me. It sounds absurd, I know. But it’s how my brain has tried to make sense of hard things for as long as I can remember. And tonight, that voice is loud.

There’s a part of me—the part I usually hide—that still believes she’s destined to be alone. The little girl who sat by herself in the playground tunnel because at least then, no one could reject her. The teenager cloaked in black, skeptical of everyone. The college student who believed this—whatever “this” was—was as good as it would ever get. And the woman I am today, wondering if the risk of heartbreak is worth the fleeting relationships I never seem able to keep.

Maybe if I disappeared, no one would notice. Or maybe they would… and just wouldn’t care.

But that’s the magical thinking talking.

The truth is: I am worthy. I’m allowed to take up space. I don’t need to earn my existence or apologize for it. The world is—or will be—better because I’m in it.

I know my purpose. It’s not to avoid causing harm. It’s to walk alongside people in pain. To say, Me too. To carry their sorrow when they’re too tired to hold it themselves. To help them heal, even if I still ache.

I didn’t cause the pain. But I can help take it away—even if it only leaves them, and not me.

I’ll still be the mule. I’ll still be the one who steps in when others step out. I’ll still carry the sword, if it means someone else doesn’t have to.

I can live with the silence, the distance, the unspoken goodbyes… if it means you’re okay.

And if one thing had been different, maybe everything would be different today.

But this still would be true:
My love remains.