There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t have a funeral. You don’t wear black for it. There’s no choir or casket. No one says, “Sorry for your loss.” But you feel it, in the tension behind your eyes at night, in the heaviness of your chest on slow weekends, in the way you replay old text threads like they were sacred scripture. It’s not the grief of a person you lost. It’s the ache for a version of love that never arrived.

It’s the grief of the almost. The if only. The maybe someday.

You built a life around it. You shaped your decisions, your prayers, your silence, and your endurance around this dream: that one day, love would show up wrapped in redemption. That the man who couldn’t love you well would change — not just for himself, but because he finally saw you. That if you just waited long enough, were soft enough, loyal enough, still enough, your patience would be proof of your worth.

No one tells you that when that fantasy dies, it rips something out of you. Not loudly — but in ways that destabilize everything. Because the version of love you mourn wasn’t just about romance. It was a mirror. A structure. A way of belonging. A blueprint you inherited long before your first heartbreak.

Some of us were taught to love people who hurt us — as long as they were hurting themselves too. We learned to pray for them instead of protecting ourselves. We were told that struggle was proof of depth. That love was supposed to be hard. That real women wait. That God rewards the longsuffering.

So we internalized grief as loyalty. We stayed — in situations, in patterns, in imaginary relationships — longer than we had capacity for. We memorized the rhythms of emotional absence. We called chaos “passion.” We learned how to suffer in silence and call it “being strong.”

And when safe love finally tried to enter the room, we flinched. We called it boring. Or awkward. Or lacking spark. But really? Our bodies just didn’t know what to do with calm. We were so trained to expect disappointment, our nervous systems didn’t know how to rest in consistency. Peace felt unsafe. Safety felt suspicious.

So we mourn, quietly, the loss of a love that only existed in potential. We scroll, we remember, we wonder: “Was it me?” “Was it timing?” “Could it still happen if they healed?” And even when we know they weren’t right for us, we still grieve who we believed they could become. That grief is real. It deserves to be named.

Because when you’re loyal to the fantasy, you’re not present to reality. And when reality offers you love — slow, steady, imperfect but real — your grief will sabotage it. Your body will reject it. Your mind will question it. Your heart will miss the highs and lows of pain, because it memorized suffering as proof.

Grieving the fantasy isn’t bitterness. It’s not giving up on love. It’s choosing to stop bleeding for an imaginary future. It’s telling yourself the truth, even when the truth burns: they were not capable of the love I deserved. Not then. Not now. Maybe not ever. And I am no longer available for stories that cost me my peace.

It’s not a quick goodbye. This grief lives in layers. It comes up in songs, smells, seasons. But every time it comes, you get to honor it without resubscribing to it. You get to let it pass through — like a wave, not a sentence.

You may write a letter you never send. You may burn old prayers. You may sit with your younger self and say, “I’m sorry you had to believe love meant surviving. We don’t have to do that anymore.”

Because something sacred is trying to be born in you. A love that doesn’t hurt. A connection that doesn’t require your abandonment. A peace that doesn’t ask you to shrink or beg or bleed.

But to get there, you have to bury the fantasy.

Let it die. With love. With reverence. With the kind of grief that clears space. Not because you’re broken — but because you’re finally making room for what’s true.

And what’s true is: love, real love, doesn’t ask you to stay loyal to your suffering.

Let the fantasy go. So you can finally come home to yourself.

If this is the season you’re ready to bury the blueprint and rewire your relationship with love — not just in your mind, but in your body — then Love Rewired is for you. This isn’t another mindset course. It’s a self paced healing designed for the woman who is ready to release the grief, recalibrate her nervous system, and create space for love that feels like safety not survival.

You don’t have to walk through this alone. Come be held in a space where your ache is seen, your patterns are gently interrupted, and your future self starts to rise.

Join Love Rewired. Let the fantasy die. Let the real love begin.