Planting a Garden I Can Call My Own

I’ve been living a double life. I didn’t realize the weight of it—the emotional toll, the psychological fatigue—until my therapist and doctor both sat me down and told me they were worried. That word—worried—landed heavier than I expected. It made me pause, breathe deeper, and start asking questions I had been too afraid to say out loud.

They say “find someone who plants flowers in the darkest parts of your mind.” But they never tell you: make sure the flowers don’t come with thorns.

At first, I thought I had found that person. The one who could make light out of shadow, who made me laugh louder and feel something close to whole. But love wrapped in secrecy becomes a slow unraveling. Imagine having a partner, but not really having one—because only a few people can know. You can go some places, but not everywhere. You exist together, but only in curated corners of the world. Never in big crowds. Never too exposed.

It chips away at you.

I didn’t notice the cracks until I found myself struggling to name my own goals. I used to write out my dreams like constellations—guiding stars I was chasing. But lately, even the short-term feels out of reach. Foggy. Like I’ve been walking through life with blinders on. I know what I want in the long term, but the day-to-day? The month-to-month? I can’t even see past the next bend. And the hardest part? That haze traces back to one small but massive truth: I’m not able to share my relationship openly.

I never imagined that something like who you love—something so personal and sacred—could have such an echoing impact on your ambition, your clarity, your mental health. But it does. It has.

I feel like I’m split in two—one version of me still chasing new careers, new cities, new beginnings. The other tethered to a love that can’t be named aloud. And I’m finally beginning to understand that I can’t live a full life while carrying only half a truth.

The worst part? Letting go of half of it isn’t possible.I would have to let go of it all.

And that thought leaves me lost. Paralyzed. Not because I don’t know what I deserve, but because I’m scared. Scared of what comes next. Scared of the silence that might follow. Scared that if I fall, I won’t have anyone there to catch me.

My therapist looked at me this week and asked,"Mariah, how much longer can you hold on before you break?"And I didn’t have an answer.Because I’m already splintering in small, quiet ways.

When we started, it felt like spring. My mind bloomed in ways I hadn’t known were possible. But somewhere along the way, the flowers grew thorns. And now the garden is overrun with brambles, and I can’t tell which roots are worth saving anymore. Do I try to prune and preserve what's left? Or is this the moment I walk away entirely—choose the pain of goodbye over the pain of invisibility?

I love them. I really do.But maybe this is a case of “right person, wrong time.”Which we all know usually just means: wrong person, period.

I keep wanting to escape it—to bury myself in distractions, flights, plans, anything to avoid sitting in the discomfort. But every time I return to reality, I realize another piece of me has gone missing. Another sliver of my confidence. Another inch of my joy.

And the truth is, I don’t want half of someone. I don’t want 75%. I want whole.I want someone I can bring home to my family. Someone who stands beside me proudly—not just in private but in the light.I want to build a life where I can plan trips and holidays and futures without pausing to ask, “Can we be seen here?”

I’m tired of loving someone who is comfortable only loving part of me.I’m tired of shrinking to make space for someone else's fear.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds.But I do know this: I’m ready to plant a new garden. One where the flowers grow wild and full and visible. No secrets. No thorns. Just light, soil, and the kind of love that grows without shame.