When Familiarity Isn’t the Pattern
What if the pain wasn’t from the past, but from the present?
One of the rarest truths we often ignore is this: The wrong people don’t always come from familiar wounds.
For so long, I believed in the theory that we attract what feels familiar. It made sense to see that familiarity was the X factor, as the old wounds tend to echo in the choices we make. That’s why some people, even strangers, felt magnetic.
I thought, maybe, I was just repeating patterns born in childhood. That the chaos I’d known had become my compass for connection.
Until one day, I met someone who felt different. No wounds mirrored. No obvious pattern. He didn’t feel familiar at all. He wasn’t chaotic or triggering. He was soft-spoken. Steady. Kind, in a quiet way. Nothing about him reminded me of past wounds or unhealthy dynamics.
And yet, when he left, I found myself eventually grieving in the same old way. The pain didn’t make sense anymore. Because, if he wasn’t a reflection of my past, if I had chosen better, if I had done everything right this time, why did I still feel shattered?
That’s when I started asking different questions.
If it wasn’t familiarity… then what was it?
If this person who left didn’t come from a wound I was unconsciously repeating, then where was it coming from? If he wasn’t a reflection of someone I needed to heal from, then what part of me had I overlooked?
I’m pretty sure I wasn’t performing this time. I wasn’t chasing. I was trying to be good, kind, soft, and safe. I wanted love to feel light, so I tried to make myself light. I avoided burdening him with the burden of my needs or emotions because I thought that being easy to be with was enough.
Loosing myself with unfamiliarity
After he left, I noticed something else. I started going out more, not to meet new people, but to simply exist near them. I wanted to feel witnessed in a quiet way. Not admired. Not spoken to. Just noticed. To have someone glance my way and silently affirm, “You’re still here.”
At the same time, I didn’t want to open up. I didn’t want to share my thoughts or feelings, not even the beautiful ones. I didn’t want to perform my presence. I just wanted to be. Uninterrupted. Unexposed.
Because when I came home, I cried, not out of drama or sadness, but from depletion. There was nothing left in me to give. No energy to pour into others. No warmth to offer. And yet some part of me still craved the familiarity of connection, even in silence.
It’s strange how familiarity can be both what breaks us and what we long for most. We return to what’s known (even if it hurts) because it feels safer than the unknown.
But then I was beginning to see that familiarity isn’t always intimacy. Sometimes, it’s just repetition wearing a comforting mask.
Experimenting the odds of unfamiliarity
So I was thinking that maybe the hardest part of all is when something ends not because it was toxic or unbearable, but because someone couldn’t choose the unfamiliar. Because comfort wins. Because their nervous system whispers, don’t try too hard but safety is in the known.
What do I do with the pain of something that could have been, but couldn’t stretch?
Honestly, I feel ashamed. Ashamed for trying, for hoping, for seeing the possibility.
And yet I refuse to make myself small just to make the ending make sense. I refuse to rewrite the story as if I failed. Because I didn’t. I simply loved with courage and not everyone is ready for that kind of unfamiliar.
So I guess, being good isn’t a guarantee
One of the hardest truths I’ve had to hold lately is that being a good person doesn’t guarantee you’ll meet good people. It’s familiar terrain like how often we confuse healing with immunity, or kindness with safety.
I thought that by breaking my old patterns, I’d avoid the old outcomes. But familiarity doesn’t just live in who we choose, it instead lives in what still hurts us.
Or being left by what’s unfamiliar doesn’t mean you’re not enough.
I keep going back to something I once thought: “I tried to be light so I wouldn’t burden them.” for the sake of making them stay when I notice they’re good people.
But maybe I wasn’t the burden. Maybe it was their inability to meet me in depth that made it feel like too much. And maybe what felt familiar wasn’t the person, but the pain of being too much for the wrong ones, and not enough for the ones too afraid of their own depth.
And if we contextualise it in a “love” setting, love itself isn’t sustained by lightness alone. It needs depth. It needs courage. It needs the willingness to stand in the full part of another person’s reality.
When we over-function in relationships, always giving, always softening, always managing the atmosphere, we risk convincing ourselves that we are difficult to love, simply because someone else couldn’t meet us where we were.
To transcend, not perform
I thought I had healed. I thought choosing differently would yield different outcomes. But I’m learning that even when we grow, life can still find ways to hurt us in familiar ways. The pain doesn’t always vanish just because the pattern did.
But maybe that’s not a setback. Maybe it’s proof that I’m moving forward, even if the road feels circular at times. So instead of asking, “Why did this happen again?” I’m learning to ask, “What part of me did I protect this time?” or “What part of me that has changed beautifully and wisely?”
Because even in the middle of grief, I was still soft. I was still kind. I still believed in love enough to try again and I hope it isn’t weakness, but a strength.
These days, I don’t want to love in hopes of being chosen. I want to love from a place of wholeness. I want to exist with myself, for myself, even if no one else is watching (and this is the hardest part to do!). This isn’t about shielding myself from pain.
Let’s learn to reframe the threads of familiarity
I used to think familiarity was always a trap, like something to avoid. But I’m beginning to see it differently now. Familiarity isn’t just about repeating wounds. It can also be recognition: of how far I’ve come, how much I’ve held, how deeply I’ve stayed soft in a world that tried to harden me. And maybe, that’s the kind of familiarity I can learn to trust.
You don’t need to rush to “do” something big right now. But you can start tending to your heart with gentleness and clarity. Let’s talk about both action and perspective, step by step.
**Side Note: Some thoughts here below were refined with the help of ChatGPT. I value clarity, and sometimes a second brain helps untangle the mess.
What to Do (Small, honest actions):
One: Make space for the sadness, , without over-identifying with it.
Let yourself feel the grief without trying to solve it too quickly. Cry. Journal. Walk. Talk to someone safe. Let the emotion move through you like a wave, not something you need to hold up or hold back.
Two: Reaffirm your values in love.
Write down what matters to you in a relationship, regardless of the person. Is it emotional courage? Shared growth? Willingness to face discomfort together? This helps you return to your truth, not just your memory of him.
Three: Redirect the energy of love.
If your love is still alive but has nowhere to go, pour it into yourself, your work, a cause, or even a creative project. You’re not “moving on” by forgetting; you’re rechanneling love into places that can hold it.
Four: Limit romanticising the “what if.”
It’s tempting to imagine: “If only he had tried a little more.” But your future doesn’t live in “almost.” Remind yourself that love includes showing up when it's hard. Not just when it’s easy.
What Perspective to Shift:
From: “It ended because I wasn’t enough or too much.”
To: “It ended because he didn’t have the readiness to hold the kind of love I offer and that’s about him, not my worth.”
From: “It’s sad it ended when there was still love.”
To: “Love alone isn’t enough if one person isn’t willing to stretch toward growth. I deserve love with courage.”
From: “Maybe I could’ve done more.”
To: “I already did more than enough. The right person won’t need me to shrink or carry it all.”
From: “I need to get over him.”
To: “I need to come home to myself again. He was part of the story, but not the destination.”
You don't have to flip a switch. Just keep choosing yourself in small ways each day. It’s okay if some mornings you still miss him. What matters is that you keep choosing not to abandon yourself in that missing.