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used to think moving on was just a matter of time. That one day, you’d wake up and it just wouldn’t hurt anymore. No tears, no triggers, no late-night spirals when a song came on or a photo popped up in your memories. But I’ve come to learn the truth: moving on isn’t passive. It’s not something that happens to you. It’s something you have to choose—every single day—until it sticks.

There was a moment I remember so clearly. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, holding my phone, staring at a text thread I hadn’t touched in weeks. The last message I sent was “I hope you’re okay.” No reply. Just silence. And still, I couldn’t delete it. I wasn’t ready. Because deleting it meant admitting that it was really over. And part of me didn’t want to believe that yet.

But here’s the reality: holding on to someone who’s let go of you is like standing in the rain, hoping the sun will come out if you wait long enough. It won’t. The only way to get dry is to find shelter and change your clothes. It sounds harsh, I know. But I’ve lived it. I’ve stayed emotionally soaked for months too long. I’ve replayed conversations. I’ve made excuses for their distance. I’ve even blamed myself for things that were never mine to carry.

Then one day, I gave myself 18 minutes. Not to wallow—but to decide.

For 18 minutes, I sat in silence and asked myself the questions I’d been avoiding: Was this relationship ever really right for me? Did I feel safe? Seen? Did I like who I was when I was with them? And the answers—though hard—were freeing. Because while I missed them deeply, I also realised that I missed me more. The me who wasn’t anxious, waiting for a text. The me who didn’t feel like love was something I had to earn with effort, charm, or emotional gymnastics.

That day, I wrote a letter I never sent. I poured it all out—what I loved, what I regretted, what I hoped they’d remember about me. And then I folded it up, placed it in a drawer, and made a decision. I wasn’t going to be someone’s emotional backup plan anymore. I was going to start showing up for myself.

Moving on isn’t a straight line. It’s messy. One day you’ll feel like dancing again, and the next you’ll feel hollow at a smell or a memory. That’s okay. That’s normal. But every time you resist the urge to stalk their social media, every time you choose not to send that “just thinking of you” text, every time you say “I deserve better” and mean it—you’re building something stronger inside you.

I started filling my time with things that made me feel alive. I booked a weekend trip. I joined a running group. I called friends I hadn’t spoken to in ages. I changed my sheets. I started cooking for myself again—really cooking, not just microwave meals eaten standing up at the counter. And slowly, something shifted. The weight of it all started to lift. Not all at once. Not in some movie montage kind of way. But in quiet, stubborn, brave little steps.

And I forgave myself. That was the biggest one. Because I used to beat myself up for falling so hard, for not seeing the signs, for holding on too long. But now I see it differently. I loved. I gave. I believed. That’s not weak. That’s beautiful. We don’t heal by pretending we didn’t care. We heal by honouring the fact that we did.

If you’re sitting there now, reading this and still aching over someone, please know you’re not alone. I’ve been there. I still get reminders sometimes. But now, instead of pulling me backward, they remind me how far I’ve come. How much I’ve grown. How ready I am to meet someone who chooses me back—with the same passion, honesty, and warmth that I bring.

You don’t have to wait for closure from them. You can create it for yourself. You can decide today that you’re worth more than breadcrumbs and broken promises. You can take 18 minutes—right now—and start. Start writing. Start moving. Start forgiving. Start dreaming about the kind of love that doesn’t leave you questioning everything.

Because that love? It exists. And it starts with how you treat yourself. It starts with believing that the ending of that last chapter doesn’t mean the book is over. It just means you’ve got a new one to write.

This is Dating Dave, letting go with grace, and leaning into the beautiful unknown of what comes next.