I Spent Three Years Certain We Were Meant to Be. Then I Had to Admit: She Simply Chose Not To.
"When 'meant to be' becomes a cage you build for yourself"
Dear fellow travellers,
I need to confess something that feels both liberating and terrifying to admit out loud:
I don’t believe in destiny anymore.
Not in soulmates. Not in “the one.” Not in the romantic idea that the universe has already chosen who belongs with whom, and if you just wait long enough, fate will bring them back to you.
For someone who has spent every relationship convinced I’d found my destiny, this realisation feels like stepping off a cliff. But maybe that’s exactly what I needed—to stop waiting for the universe to catch me and learn to trust my own feet.
The Obsession Disguised as Romance
Every time I fell in love, I fell into a familiar pattern:
This is the one. This is my destiny. We’re meant to be.
And once I decided someone was my destiny, I became obsessed. Not with them as a real, flawed, complex human being—but with the story of us. With proving we were meant to be.
I picked apart every detail. Every compatibility. Every difference. Every similarity.
She likes winter, I prefer spring → Complementary! Balance! Destiny!
She’s clumsy, I’m more organized → We complete each other! Meant to be!
She’s practical, I’m emotional → Perfect match! Soulmates!
She needs space, I need closeness → Wait... but we can meet in the middle!
It didn’t even matter what the answer was. I looked at everything through rose-coloured glasses because I’d already decided this was my destiny. So every piece of evidence, whether it matched or didn’t match, got twisted into proof that we belonged together.
That’s not love. That’s not even observation. That’s obsession wearing romance as a disguise.
When Destiny Becomes a Way to Avoid Reality
After the breakup, the destiny narrative became even more insidious.
Instead of processing the loss, instead of accepting that she chose to leave, instead of sitting with the reality that our relationship ended—I told myself a different story:
“If we’re meant to be, destiny will bring us back together.”
“The universe doesn’t make mistakes. We’re soulmates. She just needs time to realise it.”
“Our connection is too strong. Fate will reunite us eventually.”
I genuinely believed this. I wasn’t just hoping—I was certain. And that certainty kept me trapped in a holding pattern for weeks. I couldn’t move forward because I was waiting for destiny to course-correct what I saw as a mistake.
But here’s what I was really doing: I was running away from reality because I didn’t want to accept the fact that she didn’t choose to have me in her life anymore.
Not “couldn’t have me” because of bad timing or circumstances, or destiny’s cruel tricks. She didn’t choose me. She made an active decision that I was not the person she wanted in her life in the future.
And destiny wasn’t going to override her choice. The universe wasn’t going to force her to want me back. No amount of spiritual alignment or cosmic connection could make someone choose me if they’d already decided not to.
The destiny narrative was just a prettier way to deny the truth.
The Self-Blame That Followed
Once I started to crack through the destiny delusion, I swung hard in the opposite direction:
If we weren’t meant to be, it must be because I’m not worthy.
I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t the right match. I was too broken, too intense, too much. My BPD made me unlovable. I failed the cosmic test. I was the reason destiny didn’t choose us.
And so I whipped myself. Blamed myself. Made a list of every way I was insufficient. Every flaw proved I wasn’t worthy of being someone’s destiny.
This is also not healthy.
Because it’s still the same pattern: making the relationship about some external validation of my worthiness. First, I needed destiny to validate that we belonged together. Then I needed my flaws to explain why destiny rejected us.
Either way, I was avoiding the simplest, most painful truth: She chose not to have me in her life. Not because of destiny. Not because I’m fundamentally unworthy. She just chose differently.
The Choice She Made (And Why It’s Not About Destiny)
Here’s what I’m finally accepting:
She looked at our relationship—all of it, the good and the difficult—and decided it wasn’t what she wanted for her future. She chose to leave. She chose to prioritise her own well-being over maintaining our relationship.
That’s not destiny. That’s not fate. That’s not the universe deciding we weren’t meant to be.
That’s just a person making a choice.
And she had every right to make that choice. It doesn’t make her cruel. It doesn’t make me unworthy. It doesn’t mean we were never really in love or that everything was a lie.
It just means she evaluated her options and chose differently than I would have chosen.
I accommodated her from the beginning. My BPD symptoms, amplified by my illness, made me emotionally exhausting. She needed someone less intensive. She needed space I couldn’t easily give. She needed stability I couldn’t consistently provide.
And that’s okay. She’s allowed to need those things. She’s allowed to choose them.
The hard part is accepting that her choice doesn’t require my approval. It doesn’t need to be “right” or “wrong.” It doesn’t need to be validated by destiny or explained by my unworthiness.
She just chose. And I have to accept that choice, even though I wouldn’t have made it.
There Is No “Meant to Be”
This is the part that feels both devastating and freeing:
There is no “meant to be.” There’s only what we choose.
I thought believing in destiny made love more meaningful. More romantic. More secure. If we were meant to be, then nothing could truly separate us. The universe would ensure we ended up together.
But that belief made me passive. It made me wait instead of acting. It made me analyze instead of connect. It made me cling instead of love freely.
Because if someone is your destiny, you can’t risk losing them. You can’t give them space to choose you freely because what if they choose wrong and mess up fate’s plan? You have to prove constantly that you’re the right match. You have to fix every flaw. You have to make yourself worthy of the destiny you’ve been promised.
That’s not love. That’s anxiety wearing a soulmate narrative.
Real love—the kind I’m learning about now, too late for us—means accepting that the other person chooses you every day. And some days they might choose differently. And that’s their right.
There’s no cosmic force ensuring we stay together. There’s no destiny holding us in place. There are just two people, choosing each other, or choosing not to, moment by moment.
And she chose not to anymore.
I Choose My Future. I Choose My Destiny.
If destiny isn’t real, or if it is and I just can’t know what it is—then what?
Then I choose.
I choose my future. I choose what I build. I choose what meaning I make from this pain. I choose whether I grow or whether I stay stuck.
I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know if there’s some grand plan or if everything is random or if there’s a path I’m supposed to find.
And that’s okay. The not-knowing is okay.
What’s not okay is waiting for someone else—or some cosmic force—to decide my path for me.
I can’t wait for her to realise we were meant to be. I can’t wait for destiny to bring us back together. I can’t wait for the universe to validate that I’m worthy of love.
I have to choose to build a life anyway. With or without her. With or without destiny’s approval. With or without the romantic ending I thought we were guaranteed.
I choose to heal. I choose to work. I choose to show up. I choose to become whole.
Not because it will make her come back. Not because it will prove I was worthy all along. But because I’m the only one who can choose my life.
Everyone Is Incomplete (And That’s Okay)
I spent so long looking for someone to complete me.
Someone who would balance my chaos with their stability. Someone who would fill the empty spaces inside me. Someone who would make me whole.
And when I found her, I thought: This is it. This is my missing piece. We’re incomplete separately, but together we’re whole.
But that’s not how people work.
I am incomplete. She is incomplete. Everyone is incomplete. There is no “perfect match” that makes you suddenly whole.
You can’t expect someone else to complete you. You can’t hand them your broken pieces and ask them to assemble you into a functional person.
I have to make myself whole. On my own. Through my own work. With my own hands.
That doesn’t mean I don’t need people. It doesn’t mean relationships don’t matter. It doesn’t mean love isn’t transformative.
It just means: my wholeness is my responsibility. Not hers. Not anyone’s.
The Inner Child I Expected Her to Raise
Here’s what I’m understanding now, sitting in this temple, two months after the breakup:
I am the one responsible for taking care of my inner child. Not my partner.
My inner child—the part of me that’s scared, that needs reassurance, that panics at the thought of abandonment—I handed that child to her. I expected her to soothe it. To parent it. To promise it would never be left again.
That wasn’t fair.
I wasn’t a burden to her. But making her carry my emotional luggage? That was a burden.
The difference is subtle but crucial:
Being a person with needs: Not a burden. Everyone has needs.
Expecting your partner to meet all your needs: A burden. That’s too much weight for one person.
I needed so much reassurance. So much validation. So much proof that she wouldn’t leave. And when my BPD symptoms were amplified by illness, those needs became even more intense.
She tried. She accommodated. She gave and gave and gave until she was exhausted.
And I mistook her exhaustion for evidence that I was fundamentally unlovable, rather than seeing it as evidence that I was asking one person to carry what I should have been carrying myself.
My inner child is my responsibility. My emotional regulation is my work. My fear of abandonment is my healing journey.
She could support that work. But she couldn’t do that work for me. And I shouldn’t have expected her to.
The Emotional Luggage I Made Her Carry
When you believe someone is your destiny, it’s easy to justify handing them everything.
All your fears. All your needs. All your unhealed wounds. Because if you’re meant to be together, they should be able to handle it, right? If you’re soulmates, they should want to carry your pain for you.
But that’s not partnership. That’s parentification.
I gave her my emotional luggage and expected her to carry it. And when it got too heavy, when she said she couldn’t carry it anymore, I panicked.
Because if she couldn’t carry my luggage, maybe we weren’t meant to be. Maybe I’d been wrong about destiny. Maybe I was too broken for anyone to love.
But the real lesson is simpler: I shouldn’t have given her my luggage in the first place.
I should have been doing the work to unpack it. To sort through it. To process it. To carry it myself.
That’s what therapy is for. That’s what meditation is for. That’s what this temple time is for. That’s what 108 prostrations every morning are for.
I’m finally learning to carry my own shit.
Moving On (Without the Comfort of Destiny)
The hardest part of letting go of destiny is accepting that there’s no safety net.
If we’re not meant to be, then she’s really gone. There’s no cosmic force that will bring her back. There’s no predetermined reunion. There’s no guaranteed happy ending.
She’s just gone. And I have to move on.
Not because I’ve stopped loving her. Not because I don’t miss her. Not because the grief is gone.
But because waiting for destiny to fix this is just another way to avoid living my life.
I have to move on. Not to some predetermined destination. Not toward some fated person who will be my real “one.” Not toward proof that I’m worthy or whole or fixed.
Just... forward. Into the unknown. Into a future I’m choosing step by step, without a map or a guarantee.
And that’s terrifying. And that’s freedom.
What I’m Learning at 4 AM
Every morning at 4 AM, I do 108 prostrations. Bow down, stand up, bow down, stand up. 108 times.
Some mornings I’m thinking about her the whole time. Some mornings I’m thinking about destiny and meaning and whether anything matters. Some mornings I’m just counting.
But every morning, I’m choosing to show up.
Not because it’s my destiny to be here. Not because the universe led me to this temple. Not because this is where I’m “meant to be.”
I’m here because I chose to be here. And every morning, I choose to stay.
That choice—that daily, unglamorous, un-romantic choice—is more powerful than any destiny narrative I used to tell myself.
I don’t know if there’s a grand plan. I don’t know if she and I will ever speak again. I don’t know if I’ll find love again or if I’m “meant to” end up with someone else or if any of this matters in some cosmic sense.
And I’m learning to be okay with not knowing.
What I do know: I’m here. I’m breathing. I’m choosing to heal. I’m learning to carry my own emotional luggage. I’m taking responsibility for my inner child. I’m building a life that doesn’t require anyone else’s presence to be valid.
That’s not destiny. That’s just a choice. My choice. Made every morning at 4 AM when the bells ring and I get up and show up and keep going.
And maybe that’s enough.
For Anyone Still Waiting for Destiny
If you’re reading this because you’re stuck in the “meant to be” narrative, waiting for the universe to bring them back, analysing every sign and synchronicity for proof that you’re soulmates—I want to say this gently:
They made a choice. And it wasn’t destiny that made them choose. It was them.
You can wait for destiny. You can look for signs. You can believe that if you’re really meant to be, nothing can keep you apart.
Or you can accept that they chose not to have you in their life right now. And you can choose to build a life anyway.
The second option is harder. It offers no comfort, no guarantee, no romantic narrative.
But it gives you your power back.
You’re not waiting for the universe to validate you. You’re not waiting for them to realise the cosmic truth. You’re not passive in your own story.
You’re choosing. Every day. What you build. Who you become. How you move forward.
There might be destiny. There might not be. We don’t know anything about the future, and that’s okay.
What we do know: we have today. We have our choices. We have the option to take responsibility for our own healing, our own wholeness, our own inner child.
And that’s enough to build a life on.
The Reality I’m Accepting
She chose not to have me in her life.
Not because of destiny. Not because I’m fundamentally unworthy. Not because the universe decided we weren’t meant to be.
She just chose.
And I’m choosing too. I’m choosing to accept her choice. I’m choosing to stop waiting. I’m choosing to carry my own emotional luggage. I’m choosing to parent my own inner child. I’m choosing to build a life that doesn’t require her presence or destiny’s approval.
I’m incomplete. That’s okay. Everyone is incomplete.
There’s no perfect match. That’s okay. No one can complete me.
I have to make myself whole. And I’m choosing to do that work.
Not because it will make her come back. Not because it will prove I was worthy all along. Not because destiny will reward me with a better love story.
Just because it’s my life. And I’m the only one who can choose what to do with it.
The destiny narrative kept me comfortable. Kept me hoping. Kept me passive.
Letting it go feels like falling.
But maybe falling is just another word for finally learning to trust my own feet.
These letters from the temple are how I’m learning that choosing your path is scarier than believing in destiny—but it’s the only way to actually move forward.
Next week: “Learning to Swallow Loneliness” - because ‘you are on your own, kid.’
Choosing my future (without a map),
Suinny
If you’re struggling with codependency, waiting for someone to come back, or feeling incomplete without a partner:
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 988
Find therapists specializing in attachment: Psychology Today directory
Codependents Anonymous: coda.org
You don’t need someone to complete you. You don’t need destiny to validate your worth. You just need to choose yourself, every day, until it becomes natural. You’re enough. You always were.