My boyfriend and I don’t fight often, but when we do it always follows the same trajectory: I nervously tell him that something he’s done, or hasn’t done, disappointed me. His face immediately falls, and I watch him sink into himself. Then I can’t help but feel guilty for hurting him.
But first I’m angry. How dare his response to my criticism make me feel like I did something wrong? I think to myself. I should always feel comfortable expressing grievances to my partner. And he should welcome them with open arms. And you know what? I shouldn’t even need to tell him that I’m disappointed. If he doesn’t get it by now, he doesn’t get me by now. And if that’s the case, what have we been doing these last five years? My rage convinces me to lash out at him, which I do without a second thought, then catapulting us to phase two: the guilt.
I’m the worst girlfriend ever, I lament. I’d feel upset too, if the roles were reversed. I can’t believe I did this to him. I can’t believe I keep doing this to him. I need to figure out how to make it up to him and ask whatever deity I know to help him find it in his heart to forgive me.
This is typically when the tears begin, initiating phase three: anxiety. Panic attacks ensue, which for me present as breathless crying fits. Logic is quick to make its exit, turning the voice inside my mind into a vortex of worry and doubt.
Why can’t I effectively communicate my emotions? Is it because I’m not ready to be in a serious relationship? Am I not worthy of love? I’m probably not; after all, my own father left me in the hospital amid a life-threatening health crisis just because of his pride. I don’t even know why I try. I should let him go now so he can meet someone who doesn’t make his life so difficult.
Hours fly by. My boyfriend tries to calm me down. Eventually the dust settles, I stabilise, and we return to the happily-in-love couple I know us to be. But the pangs of embarrassment and shame take longer to go away.
As much as I’d like to think that I’ve grown since my teens and early 20s, I used to handle conflicts in relationships in exactly the same way. Can it be that I’m still that insecure young woman who felt so abandoned, angry, and lonely? Every bone in my body has known for quite some time now that my boyfriend is the person I want to be with forever. He’s seen every part of me – the parts I love, the parts I hate, the parts I feel indifferent about – and he honours and cherishes them. I see every part of him too, and we are so in love with the life we’ve built.
The kind of love my boyfriend gives me is decidedly different from what I’ve received in the past, yet my fears and hang-ups about love have yet to evolve. So did I need to look back before I could move forward?
Talking to ex-friends about why our relationships ended proved such a successful experiment that I decided to reach out to my former beaus and hear, from their perspectives, why we didn’t work out.
I have never ended a relationship on good terms (thanks, Mom and Dad!), so the project felt uniquely terrifying. Many said no, some more kindly than others, but to my surprise, a couple said yes. Here are those conversations – and their revelations. Names have been changed.
Jordan
Jordan came into my life at a complicated time. My parents’ marital problems were undeniable, and my father had started to slip away from me. I was a very angry, sad, and scared 16-year-old who masked all those feelings with exuberant confidence, barely tolerable bitchiness, and an active social schedule.
Jordan was my volleyball coach’s cousin. He was 19 and went to university in the UK. Our coach decided to put him to good use while he was in Nairobi (where I live) visiting relatives during a school break. She started bringing him to practices and tasked him with picking up balls and setting up nets. I’ll never forget the first practice he showed up to. The second I saw his tall stature, dreamy brown eyes, and buoyant curls, I told my teammates not to bother looking at him twice. He was mine.
I was useless at that practice. I’d purposefully hit the ball out of bounds, prompting Jordan to sprint across the gym to return it to me. On one occasion, I sprinted with him, making sure to flaunt my assets as I bent over to pick the ball up. “Oh, you’re trouble, aren’t you,” he said with a smirk. “You bet I am,” I responded cheekily.
Jordan and I made it official when he went back to the UK. I was prepared to do anything to make it work. I’d wake up at 4 am to Skype him before his day started. I’d ignore my teachers during class to text him. I was completely consumed by the promise of our growing romance.
I didn’t know what love bombing was at the time, so when Jordan would send me long messages filled with sweet nothings, I understood them as proof of his devotion. A loving soliloquy would overshadow missed video calls; a “you’re so beautiful” would make up for days of not texting me back. But eventually he gave up on the compensations for his absence and simply disappeared from my life.
Then, years later, when I was a freshman in college, he reached out again. His timing was impeccable – I was just as lonely as when we’d first met. He hadn’t changed much either, as it turned out; after a couple of weeks of promising that this time would be different, he ghosted me again, leaving me wondering what was wrong with me. I never heard from him again.
That is, until a few weeks ago. He was the hardest of my exes to find, and it took him a long time to get back to me after agreeing to participate. I couldn’t help but feel triggered. This was the Jordan I knew – flaky and full of hot air.
“Are you nervous right now?” he asked with a smile when we finally connected. I hated that he noticed my anxiety. Then Jordan asked me why I wanted to write about our relationship. “We didn’t technically date, did we?”
I have to admit, that one hurt. In my book we absolutely did.
He went on to explain that when we met his “life was very turbulent”.
“I was just starting to get into university, I was living with my mom at the time – a lot of personal stuff was going on,” he added. We both agreed that we were probably more in love with the idea of being together than the reality. “It was like those movies, when we first met,” he said. “You lived in Kenya, I lived in the UK. We had really good chemistry. It was like something out of a Nicholas Sparks novel.”
Jordan confessed that he’d only felt a “natural spark” with someone once before me. “That was significant,” he said. Part of the problem was that he wasn’t ready to turn that spark into something real. “I was not the best person back then. I had big issues being truthful. My character was not the best. I was a terrible communicator, and I didn’t put as much effort into our budding relationship as I should have,” he said, adding that he was more interested in exploring himself than committing to me.
Jordan’s grown since we were (almost, apparently) together, and now he finally does seem ready to find a life partner. To my surprise, I’m really happy about that.
Brendan
I’d heard of Brendan before I met him – he was a beloved figure at our college, always flashing a warm, somewhat manufactured smile as he strutted down the quad or around the admissions building. I’d see him in passing – he was always surrounded by people, the very noticeable epicentre of whatever group he was hanging out with. His boisterous laugh would fill up a room. And whether you were one of the lucky people close to him or, like me, just walking by, you couldn’t help but smile back.
We officially met at a Halloween party my sophomore year. I’m not sure now what got us talking, but once we started we didn’t stop. Between drunken make-outs, we talked about school, our precollege lives, what was trending on Twitter at the time. I basked in his glow. His constant eye contact made me feel like the most special girl in the room. I ended up spending the night with him.
The next morning I woke up in a panic. I had an important sorority event that I had to get to, and I was running late. He walked me to the campus bus stop, sweetly kissed me on the lips, and asked for my number. I gave it to him, and he promised to text me. I didn’t think much of it. No way is he actually going to text, I thought to myself. We’ll probably never hang out again. But we did.
The next few weeks Brendan showed me the best of him. He doted on me: morning texts, college-budget-approved dates, compliments. I’d never been courted by a Southern man, but wow, was it something. After Thanksgiving break, during which he went to Disney World with his family, he gave me a beautiful Mickey Mouse necklace with my birthstone in the middle.
Things started to sour around the two-month mark. Brendan was a senior, and his priorities shifted. He became colder, more distant, and it drove me nuts. I thought I’d done something wrong, and soon my insecurities took over. A drunken altercation was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He broke up with me, and I was devastated. My heart was in pieces – my self-esteem, too.
Still, we started talking again not long after that, kicking off our years-long on-again-off-again relationship. Brendan was the conductor of our toxic affairs – when he wanted me, he had me, and when he didn’t want me, he discarded me. Over the years, he’d tease me with glimmers of the Brendan I’d first met, usually when he was trying to get me back. But as soon as I became inconvenient, the other Brendan would make an appearance: stubborn, vengeful, and ruthless. That Brendan scared me, and I could never anticipate when he might pop up.
Looking back, both Brendan and I couldn’t be our true selves with each other. I always felt like I had to perform with him – be the perfect Black girlfriend who cooked him hearty meals, was the perfect lover, had the perfect mind, and was adored by everyone close to him. I had to make the right jokes, wear the right outfits, fall back when he needed me to, and hold him up when he didn’t know how to ask for help. In turn, Brendan was secretive, and he had emotional walls that I was never able to penetrate. Years of sporadic rejection made me feel like the real Kui wasn’t good enough for Brendan, and that hurt because I’d convinced myself that he was the only man for me.
During our last break-up, I was wailing like Viola Davis in Fences – snot-filled screams and everything. I’ll never forget how he looked at me in that moment: stoic, empty, and pitying. I’ve never felt like more of a fool, and I knew then that it was over for good.
I knew Brendan had to be a part of this experiment, and out of everyone I contacted, he was the one I was most anxious to reconnect with. It took me weeks to read his email; I had my friend Simone scan it first to make sure I wasn’t in for an emotional spiral. But once I summoned the courage to open it, I was surprised by what I found.
“Short answer: The relationship ended because I wasn’t ready for a commitment due to personal circumstances and emotional unavailability,” he wrote.
He then got into a longer version of his diagnosis of our severed relationship.
“From my perspective, when I communicated this to you, it did not seem like it was a good enough reason for you as to why I needed to be single,” he continued. “It felt like you expected me to be able to overcome my life situations and continue the relationship. However, my emotional availability and ability to navigate a serious commitment were compromised. I couldn’t confidently gauge if I was truly in love or if I could handle the challenges that came with the relationship while dealing with personal struggles.”
During our final go-around, something terrible happened in Brendan’s personal life and I didn’t know how to be there for him. I had the superficial stuff covered: sweet treats sent to his house, messages of condolences, distractions. But when it came to what he really needed – space – I fell short. In many ways, after all the heartbreaks, I felt like he owed it to me to be with me.
But Brendan then expressed something I never thought he would.
“I acknowledge that my actions were unfair to you, and I apologise for that,” he wrote. “I understand that being around me during that time was challenging, and you didn’t deserve to experience that. I needed to work on finding myself, loving myself, and establishing stability in my life. I needed to mature emotionally and as a person. Initially I thought I was ready when I asked you to be my girlfriend, but I realised later that I wasn’t.” He went on to describe me as “more mature in many situations”, which I think is generous; I’ve struggled with my own emotions throughout my life. The only difference between me and Brendan is that I let him into that struggle.
Nevertheless, he went on, “There was no value in waiting [to catch up with you] because I wasn’t even aware of the changes I needed to make… You were amazing – easy to talk to, beautiful, stylish, a sweet and caring personality. We had great chemistry, compatibility. You were a 9.5/10, but my personal circumstances and emotional state hindered my ability to commit fully.”
There’s a part of me that will always love Brendan. He was, and will always be, a defining love in my life. I’m looking forward to supporting him, and all the incredible things I’m sure he’ll accomplish, from afar. I wish nothing but the best for him.
Adam
But it all started with Adam. My first love. He was a beautiful boy – hilarious, generous (almost to a fault), and full of life. He was full of pain too, which wasn’t difficult to see. It sat just behind his eyes.
We met in our junior year of high school. I was instantly drawn to him. He made everybody laugh and feel comfortable, and I needed that more than anything else at the time.
When we finally got together, our courtship had all the bliss of teenage love. We bickered over silly things, of course, but ultimately we both knew we had something real. We saved each other and loved each other unconditionally, darkness and all. He welcomed me into his life with open arms and always handled me with care and intention. It was clumsy love – we didn’t know what we were doing – but it was also intoxicating and pure. It changed the way I look at life.
He was on his way to see me when he died the following summer, suddenly and tragically. I found out on Facebook – he was in Europe, I was in the US, and our life was in Kenya. I felt like the last to know.
I don’t fault our community for flooding my Facebook page and inbox with their condolences, but a part of me felt robbed of an experience I had earned. I deserved to learn of my boyfriend’s death gently and in private, not in an online whirlwind.
I don’t remember much about the hours after I learned of his death. (To be honest, I don’t remember much about the months and years following his passing.) What I do remember is the grim metronome of Facebook notifications, which picked up speed as time went by.
His funeral was tense. Muslim funerals are typically family-only affairs, and as much as I was honoured to be there, I felt alienated. I felt uncomfortable in that space with the grief I was holding. I didn’t know how to feel.
That discomfort carried into my senior year. No one knew how to act around me. I didn’t know how to act around me. I tried to plunge ahead and leave the pain of loving and losing Adam behind me. That decision rubbed many people the wrong way, including Adam’s friends, who couldn’t understand why I was getting rip-roaringly drunk and hooking up with anything that moved instead of crying at home, mourning my dead boyfriend the way they imagined.
In my rebellion, someone I should have held close fell through the cracks: Amina, Adam’s younger sister. Amina and I weren’t particularly close when I was with Adam, but I still thought of her as a little sister. We lost contact for years after Adam’s death, but she was kind enough to share her thoughts on our relationship and the aftermath of his passing.
“I didn’t know much about his life – [he] was very private,” she told me via WhatsApp voice note. She explained that she and Adam had grown up in a “very strict” Muslim household, in which dating before marriage was frowned upon. Adam was “definitely breaking a big norm by bringing you over”, she said.
“I could only piece together how he felt about you through seeing his actions,” Amina went on. “Part of that was me putting my ear to the door and eavesdropping like the little annoying sister. I remember hearing him talk to you on the phone and sharing crazy stories and details about his life. I definitely didn’t know what to think at first. I was stunned.”
I’d forgotten how reticent Adam was around his family. It brings up confusing emotions for me: sadness, that his family didn’t get to know the man he really was, and gratitude, that he felt comfortable opening up that side of himself to me. I’m happy that Amina got a glimpse of her big brother, even if indirectly.
Amina brought up the funeral, noting that she’d observed my isolation and discomfort.
“I wish that the women in my family did more to include you and grieve with you and keep you close,” she shared. “I can’t imagine how lonely you must have felt at that point or what you were going through.”
Amina and I have a lot more to talk about, but I’m thrilled the line of communication is open again. For so many years, I’d put Adam out of my head as a means of survival, but she reminded me of how much I’ve missed him. I hope to remember him, our love, and his incredible life through this new chapter with Amina.
In the end, this experiment didn’t teach me much about romantic relationships. We all get it – love is patient, love is kind, etc – but what I was reminded of while talking to my exes was that it’s easy not to notice self-evolution. For the past decade, I’ve been laser focused on the future: the next class, the next big milestone, the next job, the next boyfriend. I’ve tortured myself over past mistakes while obsessing over a time in my life when things would be different. Turns out, things are different. I’m different. A few years ago – hell, just one year ago – I wouldn’t have been able to talk to these men I’d loved and lost. I wouldn’t have been able to get past the pain and regret. But now I can see and honour them for the people they are today and let them go with well-wishes and appreciation – the latter because I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without them. That’s the wonderful thing about love, in your twenties and otherwise: it can move you into another version of yourself. And to me that’s something worth celebrating.
