Remembering Haughty

He said:

There was a stretch of time in my life when I’d park outside my own house and wait in the car.

The older I got, the more I realised my standards were just boundaries I hadn’t learned to enforce.

Sometimes the children would have heard the sound of the car, and they would stand by the window, looking out at me and jumping in excitement

Not because anything was wrong, but because I didn’t know what version of my wife I was about to walk into.

I called it passion and chemistry, nagging, mental health challenges, that time of the month, typical girl behaviour, what I signed up for, and more.

It was exhaustion.

I remember telling myself I wouldn't live long if I kept that lifestyle up. Acrimony and blood pressure issues are kin, and I was flying too close to that fire because I had gotten married to a warrior whose Idea of marriage is the absence of peace for the man she was married to.

The older I got, the more I realised my standards were just boundaries I hadn’t learned to enforce.

I can see the people I chose in my early twenties and what I was chasing.

Validation.

Excitement.

Distraction.

Beauty (Strictly)

There was a woman at thirty‑one who made everything feel alive and unstable at the same time.

I ignored the instability because the excitement felt good and I didn’t see how much of myself I lost trying to keep up.

At forty‑two, the things I want are quieter. My standards didn’t rise because I became picky. They rose because I finally understood the cost of choosing the wrong ones to be flexible with.

The older I got, the more I realized my standards were just boundaries I hadn’t learned to enforce.

I kept a friend around for years out of habit.

He’d vanish until he needed something, then show up as if no time had passed.

I convinced myself that’s what long friendships look like.

One night, I realised I was carrying the entire conversation.

Not just that night, the whole friendship.

I went home feeling like a weight had been lifted.

Later, it made sense. Not everyone should have access to me.

They say you become the average of the five people you spend your time with. Choose wisely!

Some people don’t leave your life. You just stop opening the door.

I stayed in a relationship because silence scared me.

We’d lie next to each other at night, and I’d feel like I was somewhere else entirely.

I tried to fix things that weren’t fixable.

The first night alone after the breakup, I sat on my couch and felt less lonely than I had in months.

That was the moment I understood loneliness. It isn’t about being alone. It’s about being unseen.

Loneliness was having a conversation with someone and not being able to speak and/or not being heard, ever.

Loneliness wasn’t the absence of someone. It was the absence of connection.

There were years when I said yes to everything.

Work.

Friends.

Family.

Boards.

Community Events.

People who needed me.

Some people who didn’t deserve me.

I woke up tired and went to bed tired and called it adulthood.

One morning, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Not because he looked older. Because he looked drained. He lacked spark. He lacked energy. He lacked that quiet confidence.

I started saying no quietly, in places where I used to say yes without thinking. That’s when I understood my energy wasn’t endless. But until now, I forgot that I was the only one responsible for protecting it.

I didn’t burn out all at once. I burned out one small compromise at a time.

He said:

I spent years trying to help someone who didn’t want to help herself.

Patience didn’t fix it.

Love didn’t fix it.

Effort didn’t fix it.

And couldn’t.

She stayed exactly the same.

Sometimes she resented me for trying.

That was the moment I learned the truth I didn’t want to learn: I can’t guide someone toward a life they don’t want. It becomes a rope slowing fraying with your time and energy on one end, and fingers slowly letting go on the other.

I wasn’t helping her. I was avoiding admitting she didn’t want to change.

There’s a moment when the truth becomes impossible to ignore. Not because of a fight or an act of betrayal. Just a quiet realisation that the relationship is over.

I stayed anyway.

I kept hope and still thought I could do more, change more, require less.

I thought I could lead by example, and she would follow. I didn’t want to start over at forty. Nor did I want to let anyone around me down.

When I finally left, my life got better so fast it felt unreal. Leaving wasn’t a failure. Moving on wasn’t reinventing myself.

It was self‑respect.

The hardest part wasn’t walking away. It was admitting I should have done it sooner.

I spent years replaying old mistakes. The relationship(s) I ruined, and the opportunities I missed. The version of myself I wish I had been, and yes.

The advice I had given out to so many friends but never followed myself.

the advice I had given out to so many friends but never followed myself.

I thought about it in the shower.

While driving.

While trying to fall asleep.

While in the middle of conversations that triggered a memory.

Eventually I understood the past wasn’t changing.

Not with guilt or regret, and not with replaying it for the thousandth time.

Through therapy, I would come to accept those thoughts and feelings as temporary and learn to allow them to move through me, swiftly and efficiently.

My future was the only thing that needed protecting now.

The past didn’t need closure. It needed to stop being the place I lived.

There was someone who made my heart race.

She made my body yearn for her when she wasn’t around and pump with excitement when she was.

I ignored everything else because the connection felt electric.

I didn’t notice how she talked to me when she was angry or how my life felt heavier with her in it.

I didn’t pay attention to how she treated people she didn’t need.

Chemistry fooled me. Sex blinded me.

Character would have saved me.

I don’t make that mistake anymore.

The attraction got my attention. Her behaviour told the truth.

I can look around at my life now and see exactly who helped me become better and who didn’t.

There’s a friend who challenged me.

Someone who believed in me when I didn’t.

Someone who made me feel like the best version of myself without asking me to be perfect.

There are people I should have let go years earlier.

I became a better man when I chose better people. I just learned it later than I wish I had.

The right people don’t change you. They make it easier to be who you already are.

I didn’t write this to sound wise.

I wrote it because these are the things I didn’t say out loud when I was younger.

Not because they were complicated. Because they were honest and I wasn’t ready to challenge myself or embrace these thoughts.

Most of what I’ve learned at forty‑two came from moments I wish I handled differently. If any of this feels familiar, you’re not behind.

You’re just finally paying attention.

On a side note, I wrote this piece a little differently than others lately.

I enjoy writing with bullet points to get thoughts across and allow others to focus on highlights.