There’s a part of me that would rather choose disappointment than risk the unknown.

Because at least disappointment is familiar.
At least I know how to survive that.

I know how to manage being let down.
I know how to keep my heart wrapped just tightly enough to not completely shatter.
I know how to say “I knew it” when someone shows me they were never really there.

What I don’t know — what terrifies me — is what it means to be truly met.
To risk letting someone all the way in.
To sit in the beautiful, terrifying uncertainty of not knowing if I can really rely on them — and choosing to stay open anyway.

So instead… I choose people who confirm the old belief.

The ones who flake.
The ones who drink.
The ones who disappear or take too much or push too hard.
The ones I can unconsciously sculpt into the shape of every childhood wound I never got to grieve properly.

Because if they let me down, I can tell myself I was right.
That I should be hyper-independent.
That it’s not safe to trust.
That love — the real kind — is something I’ll always have to survive without.

But I’m starting to see it now.

I’m not drawn to those people because I want to be hurt.
I’m drawn to them because my nervous system still thinks it’s safer to be let down than to be held.

Because at least with disappointment, I don’t have to hope.
And if I don’t hope — I can’t be broken.

But hope… is starting to whisper again.

And the part of me that longs for connection — real connection — is no longer content with the old story.

So here I am.
Still flinching.
Still cautious.
But finally, painfully, beautifully — aware.

I don’t want to choose disappointment anymore.
Even if uncertainty still scares me.
Even if love still feels like a risk.

Because I think I’m ready to find out what happens when I let myself hope — and stay.