The Real Cost of Freedom:  Losing love again & again.

A few days ago, in the morning, I had a heavy talk with my partner, my ex-girlfriend (sorry). Breaking up with someone you’re truly attached to feels like going through rehab. It’s not just a clean cut; you don’t simply stop talking or feeling from one day to the next. Three weeks ago, I ended things with her because I didn’t feel heard or respected anymore. I felt trapped. Yet, in the silence of being alone, I began to reflect. I realized that maybe there was room for change on my end, and that perhaps if I made some shifts, our relationship could have been better. So, I reached out, hoping we could give it another try.

But as we talked, I saw that the same issues were still there. I still don’t feel heard. I’m simply asking for the space to be myself— to see my friends, to travel, to be free to visit Greece, La Réunion, or catch up with female friends. These are things I shouldn’t have to fight for, things I consider normal. But our past, her past relationship issues, it all adds a layer of worry to everything I do. She’s asked for peace, asked me to stop overwhelming her with my desire to be out in the world, to meet people. Essentially, she wants me to stay at home, for a while.

And while I understand that, I struggle to accept it. I could cancel my plans to Greece, stay back, try to reconnect, but how long before I regret it? I want to go. I want to live. Who is my girlfriend to dictate my life like this? Telling me who I can and can’t see, where I can and can’t go? That doesn’t feel like a healthy relationship to me.

I just need a bit of Balance.

Ideally, I wanted her to see my side, to acknowledge my need for connection, for freedom. I wished she’d tell me, “I understand that you need to see your friends, that you want to travel. But right now, we need to find each other again. If you truly value our relationship, let’s put us first, just for a short time, so we can rebuild.”

But that’s not what I heard. Instead, I was met with accusations: “You’re selfish. You’re an asshole. You don’t prioritize me; you never will.” To her, it seemed like I was choosing my friends over our relationship, when for me, it’s about finding a balance.

Feeling Alone in the Relationship

If I think about what I want for myself, it’s simple. I want to travel, to see friends, to connect with people who feel like a support system. Right now, my girlfriend isn’t someone I feel I can lean on. Conversations turn into conflict. I feel like I’m always walking on eggshells, as if I have to hide parts of my life. Imagine, even attending a yoga class can spark conflict— because yoga might mean being around other women, and suddenly, her past trauma surfaces.

Despite all of this, I was willing to fight for us, even to the point of sacrificing my happiness. Staying back, canceling plans to see friends, not going to Greece— it all feels like self-sacrifice. But I kept thinking: What’s the return on this investment? At what point do we shift back? When do we make this a two-way street?

Instead, what I felt was her need for me to prioritize her, no matter the cost. She wanted this to be a habit, something that comes without even a thought. But I’m struggling with that. It’s not sustainable. It doesn’t feel like a partnership.

The Paradox of Love and Letting Go

What’s wild is that, despite everything, I deeply love my partner. At least, by my own definition of love—one rooted in care and a willingness to sacrifice. And it’s fascinating, almost painful, to realize that the more you invest in a relationship, the harder it becomes to let go.

Love, to me, has been about making sacrifices. I think back to the long hours on buses, those late-night Flixbus trips between Liege and Zurich, lasting eleven hours. Sometimes I’d stop in Strasbourg for a couple of hours in the dead of night. I did that monthly, twice a month, spending countless hours, energy, and money just to be with her. The more you pour into a relationship, the harder it feels to walk away. It’s like being in a casino—putting in all your chips, wondering what if. What if just one more sacrifice, one more trip, one more night could change everything? What if I book that flight from Brussels to Zurich and we finally find peace?

Yet, deep down, I know it won’t change things. Our biggest issue is that we see relationships differently. She needs someone who offers her security—someone who stays home, doesn’t stir up her past traumas. I, on the other hand, need freedom. I want to be with someone who would join me on an adventure at a moment’s notice, who shares my love for dancing and exploration.

Just keep the Illusion of Change.

You reach a point where you’re drained—financially, emotionally, physically. But still, you hold on. You think, what if? What if, after the breakup, she realizes that it’s okay for me to go to Greece, that it’s not such a big deal for me to have female friends? That I can manage friendships, no problem. But holding on to that hope, thinking that one more gesture, one more sacrifice might be the answer, is an endless cycle. It’s like looking for a sign in a room that you already know is empty.

There’s this song that calls love a “wicked game,” and sometimes, that’s exactly what it feels like—a game that entraps you, keeping you bound to someone even when you know they’ll cause you pain. Why do I feel so enslaved, so addicted to the need to reach out to someone who will inevitably hurt me?

I’m caught in this loop where trust has eroded on both sides. She doesn’t trust me, and frankly, I don’t trust her either—not with everything that’s happened. And yet, I forgive. Again and again, like an addict who knows the damage but keeps going back, believing that maybe this time will be different. I keep clinging to the hope that one day we’ll find peace, that I’ll learn to act less on my own needs, and she’ll give me the freedom I need to feel at ease. But if it hasn’t happened over a year, why should it happen now, after a breakup?

I’m realizing that people don’t change so easily, even when they want to. And I truly do want to change. I want to be a better partner, a stable, secure boyfriend. But it’s hard. I come from a mindset where being valuable as a man meant having that “playboy” edge—knowing how to flirt, to charm. These are traits that were encouraged, celebrated. And suddenly, in a relationship, those qualities need to vanish, or at least, be channeled toward one person. Yet the instinct to flirt, to connect, doesn’t just disappear. I’m constantly wrestling with what I can or can’t do, who I can or can’t be around, to avoid hurting her.

The Ideal Relationship: Freedom Within Commitment

What’s striking is that my friends tell me that a real relationship shouldn’t feel like a restriction. They say the healthiest relationship feels like:

Being single within a couple.

It’s about having the freedom to be yourself, to live without feeling a noose around your neck. Imagine being able to move, to be yourself, to look around without feeling as if any misstep will result in punishment. That’s what I’m craving—freedom within commitment, a relationship where I don’t feel like I’m on a leash, constantly fearing the backlash of my actions.

I’m reading a book right now, L’amour dure trois ans by Frédéric Beigbeder. It’s got me questioning whether love, for me, even lasts a year. Some of my past relationships have told me I’m not ready for something long-term. They say I idealize the idea of family—a wife, kids, blue eyes—but that my actions show I’m not prepared for it. But what does being “ready” really mean? Does it mean obeying my partner’s rules? I genuinely think about “us,” yet I still act on my own desires, hoping they align with hers.

My ex-partner has told me how much she hates me now—for the pain, the fights, the endless debates. It’s surreal to realize that love can turn to hate with just one step. I keep asking myself: What did I do so wrong to end up here? I didn’t cheat; I didn’t disrespect her, wasn’t violent, wasn’t cruel. I was just… me. Expressing my needs—to see friends, to move freely, to feel unconfined. But I clung to those needs with such conviction that it became a battle.

When I set my mind to something, I don’t waver. If I want to go to Dour with my friends, I’m going to Dour with my friends. And yes, I’d reassure her the whole time, send messages, update her, make it clear I’m safe and respectful. But for me, that freedom is non-negotiable. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe being ready for a long-term relationship means being willing to cancel, to set aside what I want for the relationship’s sake. But why does it feel so unnatural for me? Why do I always choose my happiness over the peace in my relationship?

Is My Desire for Freedom Like a Form of Infidelity?

Sometimes, I wonder if my choices mirror the mindset of someone who cheats. They think, I want this, I’ll go for it, even if it means paying the price later. I’m not unfaithful, but my behavior—insisting on traveling or doing things that bring me joy despite knowing it might cause her pain—feels eerily similar. I’ll eat pasta, even if I know she hates it. I’ll choose my own happiness, even when it conflicts with hers. And it’s not that I ignore her feelings; I just believe we should talk, figure out what her resistance means, understand it, and work through it.

For me, relationships are a constant conversation. I want to know why she doesn’t want me to go to that festival. What is it that bothers her? How can we deal with those feelings? And yes, I realize that I end up playing the role of the “savior,” trying to fix and change her feelings. But is that fair? Maybe she has her own boundaries, her own comfort zones, shaped by her past. Maybe, for her, it’s simple: Partners don’t go to festivals alone.

In a way, I’m exclusive and traditional too. For example, in my mind, there’s no debate about fidelity. An exclusive relationship means no intimacy with others. That’s not up for discussion. Yet, in almost every other part of my life, I treat things as negotiable, open to debate. If she wanted something, even if it felt counterintuitive to me, I’d want to know why. I’d want to talk it through, to understand her needs, and hopefully find common ground. For me, that’s how you build understanding and connection.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I need someone who shares my values so clearly that there’s no need for all these conversations. No battles, just mutual understanding. And maybe that’s why people find compatibility in shared religion, social background, or culture. With similar values, you don’t have to justify your actions constantly. There’s an unspoken agreement, a shared foundation that keeps things steady. You don’t need to negotiate every move.

But I’m lost. Completely lost. I wish it were simpler. I wish there were a clear path to understanding what I need and what’s possible in a relationship.

Another Goodbye, Another Attempt to Let Go

I’m writing this article for myself. To make sense of it all. To reflect on where it went wrong and, hopefully, to avoid making the same mistakes again. And here I am, driving on, the sun shining, my tears drying. It will take time to date again, to trust again, to genuinely open my heart. Giving my heart has been so painful, but I know that out of 4 billion women, I picked this one, convinced she was the one. I invested everything, trying to make it work, hoping she would be my forever.

But maybe, out of those 4 billion, there’s someone else. Someone who will be a better match, whose past won’t collide with mine in painful ways. Someone with whom I can start fresh, with no baggage from previous mistakes. I hope to find her soon. I’m almost 30, and my desire to build a family, to create a life with someone, runs deep. I crave that lasting intimacy with someone who can be there for me, someone who will hold my hand when things get rough.

To Everyone Going Through a Breakup: A Final Word

If you’re in the middle of a breakup, there’s something my friends, Celine and Louise, told me:

Millions, if not billions, of people have been where you are. And for each one of them, it was hard.

I don’t know anyone who’s had a “great” breakup. It always feels terrible—whether you’re the one who ended it or the one left behind. But that’s what makes us human. That’s what makes us lovers. We’re resilient. We fall, we hit rock bottom, and we go even lower. And every time we reach back out to that person, it’s like digging our own grave.

But we get up. Again and again, we rise. And maybe I’ll need to go through more breakups like this until, eventually, I find the person who makes everything worthwhile. It’s a lot of pressure to put on the future, hoping that the next one will be “the one.” But I believe she’s out there, that with the right timing, we’ll find each other, and it’ll be beautiful. And if I never meet her? That’s okay, too. She might be out there, happy with someone else, and I’ll never know.

To everyone feeling alone, at rock bottom—you’re not alone. We’re connected through friends, family, and shared heartbreak. Our hearts are meant to be broken; otherwise, how would we recognize when they’re fully alive? As human beings, we’re resilient. We make mistakes, get hurt, feel pain, and break. But each time, we come back stronger, with more hope, more courage, and even greater dreams for what love could be. We become better, piece by piece, until one day, we find Love.

Ma liberté
Devant tes volontés
Mon âme était soumise
Ma liberté
Je t’avais tout donné
Ma dernière chemise
Et combien j’ai souffert
Pour pouvoir satisfaire tes moindres exigences
J’ai changé de pays, j’ai perdu mes amis pour gagner ta confiance

Ma liberté
Tu as su désarmer
Toutes mes habitudes
Ma liberté
Toi qui m’a fait aimer
Même la solitude
Toi qui m’as fait sourire
Quand je voyais finir une belle aventure
Toi qui m’as protégé quand j’allais me cacher pour soigner mes blessures

– Ma Liberté by Georges Moustaki