The Art of Walking Away

There’s a kind of holy power in silence. Not the silence of submission, but the silence of a woman who finally knows she doesn’t owe another explanation to someone who never wanted to listen.

I used to bleed my truth out on the floor for men who couldn’t even carry their own lies. I thought love meant proving loyalty, laying my heart bare, begging to be seen. Now I know—love is not in the pleading. Love is in the walking away.

He can call me every name in the book. He can project his sins onto my skin and dress them up as truth. He can throw clown emojis like confetti. But his circus is his own, and I don’t buy tickets anymore.

This week, I stepped into his house one last time. Collected my things. Took back my plants. And felt nothing. Not rage, not longing, not grief. Just the steady knowing that my love was once real—and his lies were too. The difference is, one of us had the courage to admit it.

Silence isn’t weakness—it’s the sharpest blade. It’s refusing to wrestle with pigs, because I finally understand: you both get dirty, and the pig loves it. My words are sacred now, reserved for women who rise beside me, not men who will never meet me.

So let the lies rot where they fell. Let the insults hang in the stale air like smoke from a cheap cigarette. I won’t breathe them in. My lungs are too wild for that. My heart is already on another mountain, another sunrise, another life.

And here’s the wildest part: no tears fall. Because deep down, my body knows—I’m free.

Ever walked away in silence, knowing it was the loudest thing you’d ever say? Share your story, sis. The wilderness is listening.