Let the Fumble Stay Fumbled
I’ve been fumbled before.
It's difficult to come to that realization; it wasn’t my job to recover the ball.
It was the beginning of law school, something I’d worked so hard to finally do. I was ready for the challenge, for the shift in my life. But I also believed I could balance both, a new path and a relationship. I was willing to hang on, even when things got hard. I told her that. I meant it.
But for her, it felt like too much. Like, there wouldn’t be enough of me left for her. She never said it outright, but I could feel the pullback. The hesitation. The growing distance. And when I stopped chasing and really thought about it, I realized I was the one still laced up, suited up, ready to give 110%.
Put me in the game, coach.
But what are we playing for if my teammate isn’t in it with me? If I can’t trust she’ll have my back, pick it up when I fumble, or trust me to do the same for her?
You can’t play with people’s hearts. Love isn’t a game. I know that better than most. I’ve had my heart broken enough times to know it’s not fun, not something I’d ever do just for sport. I’m not out here breaking hearts, for the thrill of it, I’m trying to make a real connection. I want the kind of love that catches you and holds you, even when things are messy, uncertain, or hard.
The kind of love where both of us show up.
I’m not asking someone to do all the work.
I’m just asking them to hang on with me. To meet me in the middle. To try.
Because when someone starts letting go, whether it’s emotional distance, silence where there used to be curiosity, or just… not showing up, it means something. And you feel it. In every delayed reply. In every gesture that doesn’t come.
Sometimes, sure, the fumble is recoverable. If both people reach for the ball.
But too often, it just hits the ground and stays there.
And it can’t always be me running down the field, stiff-arming and jumping defenders, carrying the entire weight of the team. I’ve done that. I know how that story ends.
Relationships, real ones, aren’t built on one person fighting to keep it alive while the other retreats. They’re built on two people choosing each other. Over and over. Even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.
I’ve shown up. I’ve held on. But I know my limit now. And I’ve learned that once someone starts letting go, it’s not always my job to chase.
Sometimes the kindest, clearest act of self-love is letting the fumble stay fumbled.
And walking off the field with my head held high.
Because the right person?
She won’t drop it in the first place.
And if she does?
She’ll scramble to pick it up with me. Not alone. Not late. Not “maybe someday.” But together.
And I deserve nothing less.
If I decide to step back into the dating field,
I hope, whoever she is, she’ll show up in her own way, when she’s ready.
Sure, dating often starts casually.
But maybe, just maybe, it grows into something more.
Something real between two people who realize they’ve been looking for each other all along.
I’ve learned I can care. I can try.
Without losing myself in the process.
Because I know exactly what I bring to the table.
On the field, in life, and in love.
And I’m not afraid to hold out for someone who knows how to hold on, too.
The truth about Asal? She was battling a lot of internal demons. She lied, schemed, and hurt people, including me. I’m not here to make excuses. She hurt me when she pushed me away and ended our friendship. And she hurt me when she took her own life.
The other day, my friend Kimi and I were laughing about some of our chaotic adventures with Asal, and she said, “I bet Asal would be tickled pink knowing we’re still talking about her.” She absolutely would be.
This one story pretty much sums her up: it was the early 2000s. I was freshly free from my latest ex and trying to decompress on the couch. I’d just eaten a "funny" brownie when there was a knock at the door, Asal. She came in totally unhinged, ranting about how our exes were probably sleeping together now. I told her, “I don’t care. Let them. We’re broken up.”
She was pacing, manic energy on full display, killing my buzz. I remember saying, “Calm your tits, Asal. I’m trying to relax here, and you're harshing my chill. Stop obsessing over what they could possibly be doing. I don't really care or I'm trying not to anyways. They don’t deserve our energy.”
Somehow, through her conspiracy theory logic, she convinced me to go on a sapphic espionage mission to “confirm” her suspicions. Classic. She had no boundaries, was wildly persuasive, and loved a good fate-driven quest, flipping coins to make decisions like heads, which bar to hit, or tails, whether to even go out at all. We were in our twenties. Directionless and lacking purpose. We had lots of fun. We also had some truly painful moments.
Asal was my best friend for years. And it’s devastating to realize that I didn’t really know her. At all. I loved her like family, like a sibling. But eventually, I had to let go of who I thought she was and see the truth: she was drowning in unhealed trauma. And being around her, I was drowning in it too. I didn’t have the capacity to deal with her pain and mine at the same time. I was losing my dad. Already grieving. Already exhausted.
I will always love her. The her that I only knew. Now, that part of my life is done. I don't regret the friendship, but I do mourn what could’ve been. When she died, the consequences of her choices ended. So did her opportunity to be accountable. And I’ve had to keep forgiving myself for wishing she’d made different choices.
I don’t agree with what she did, but I understand why she did it.
Asal was brilliant. She was charismatic. And I wish she’d used her power for good. When she was mentally well, she was extraordinary. But when she wasn’t… she did some really shady, damaging things. She betrayed people’s trust. She hurt people emotionally and financially. And what hurts most is, she didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. She didn’t give me a choice. Everyone deserves redemption. She never gave herself that chance.
Generational trauma is a bitch. Healing is possible, but only if you're willing to seek and accept help. That’s it. That’s the whole sad secret.
If you're struggling, get help. Real help. Deep, consistent, compassionate therapy, especially the kind that can address generational or historical trauma. This world can be brutal to soft hearts, neurodivergent minds, misfits, and creatives. But we can still choose to heal.
I think I’m okay, mostly. Some days I’m just so very tired. But I’m still here. I’m still living. And maybe that’s part of the work now, staying alive and telling the truth for those who couldn’t. “Get busy living or get busy dying,” as Red said in Shawshank Redemption.
Asal once posted on my Facebook, months before we stopped speaking, “Would you still love me if I was a Republican?” Back then it was an easy yes. Now? We’d definitely need to talk about it. LOL. Miss you, friend. I hope you found peace. Cheers!
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please know that help is available. You are not alone. In the U.S., you can contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by calling or texting 988 or visiting 988lifeline.org for 24/7, free and confidential support.
Please reach out. Your life matters. ❤️
I've been crying uncontrollably the past few days, and I finally figured out why, this is the time of year Asal died. Or, maybe more accurately, when she was slowly dying. Slowly killing herself.
And aren’t we all, in a way, when we deny our truth and bury ourselves in shame? Yeah, I’m being a little dramatic. But that’s how it felt.
I remember the year she passed. It was 2011, Memorial Day weekend. I was out with friends, having a good time, but I had this overwhelming sense of dread. I even said something to my partner at the time, how I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
My father had only been gone for less than two years, and I probably still hadn’t processed that grief. But this was different. This felt like something breaking loose in the universe.
Before I left California, Asal told me she didn’t want to be friends anymore. Those weren't her exact words but something like that. She said things that were harsh but honest, for her, at least. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t question it. I tried to reach out, to maybe talk it through, to see if there was a way forward, but I was distracted. At that time, my father was dying. I was leaving everything I knew behind. And I just didn’t have the capacity to fight for us.
I held out hope that we’d circle back. That time would pass, and like old friends do, we’d find each other again. Because that’s what friendship is. It stretches. It survives. I thought we had that.
I’ll admit, back then, I was selfish. I was overwhelmed. I didn’t realize how much my absence fractured the little web of friendships I was part of. I didn’t know how much I mattered to people. I didn’t know I mattered. I think I lost myself trying to manage what everyone wanted from me. And in the process, I lost her.
Especially when your best friend of ten years tells you that you’ve become unbearable. That you’ve changed. That you’re stuck-up and pretentious. And the truth is, I had changed. My proximity to whiteness, being in a relationship with a very driven, very boundary-clear white woman, had shifted the way I moved through the world. And it made some people feel like I wasn’t myself anymore.
Maybe I shut down. Maybe I assumed everyone would get over it. That friendships like ours could survive a break. But they can’t if one person is gone and the other is hurting in silence.
Asal and I had lived together. We talked nearly every day. We were both immigrants, me from the Philippines, her from Iran. She was brilliant. Quick-witted. Funny in that smart, cutting kind of way. She loved poetry, especially Rumi. She once told me her name, Asal, meant "honey" in Farsi. And it fit. Her voice had this slight accent, soft but distinct. Sweet and sharp all at once. I can still hear it sometimes. We even dated the same woman once, though not at the same time (That’s a story for another day).
The call came late. Around midnight. I was already in bed. Emme, my ex, the woman Asal dated after me, called to say she was gone.
And somehow, I wasn’t surprised. My body already knew. That dread? That ache? It was my soul recognizing a shift. Asal was no longer in this world. At least, not in physical form.
I do believe in God. I believe in energy, in spirit, in something bigger. I don’t know where we go when we die. Maybe into the wind. Maybe the stars. Maybe we just dissolve into cosmic dust, folded back into the universe.
I felt guilt for a long time. For not being there. For not seeing what she needed. I think if I had, and if I had offered help, she might have taken it.
Since then I’ve had a lot of therapy. I’m okay now. I'm fine. Mostly.
You’d think it would get easier with time. And for the most part, the rest of the year is easier. But then her death anniversary rolls around and wrecks me in ways I don’t expect. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.
So, I’ll leave you with a happy memory.
The first time I met Asal was at a lesbian bar, it was called G-spot, actually. We were both there with our girlfriends, and I was standing there, double-fisting cocktails, because if you’ve ever been to a bar in San Francisco, you know it’s more efficient that way. Amanda introduced us. And Asal later told me she thought I was the coolest person. Just me, holding two drinks, unapologetically enjoying the night surrounded by my people and laughing with my friends.
She remembered that moment. And so do I.
She was flawed. Complicated. Beautiful. And I will always miss her. And the friendship we could have had. Always.
May your soul be at peace, Asal. Wherever you are.
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.” – Rumi
Grief has no expiration date. And neither does love.
Asal Khanghahi (January 16, 1975 - June 2, 2011)
#WeAreCosmicDust #GriefIsNotLinear #HealingThroughGrief #GriefJourney #WhenTheBodyRemembers #RememberingAsal #RestInPower