Falling In Love The Way I've Never Fallen Before

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.