Even if you’re not a Swiftie, Taylor Swift’s So Long, London captures something so hauntingly real for anyone who’s ever loved from a place of anxious attachment—especially when the person on the other side is avoidant.
But let’s set the music aside for a second.
Picture this:
You and your partner are in a canoe. You’re floating down a river together—life, love, the future. It’s not just the two of you anymore. Over time, you start collecting things: memories, milestones, maybe even people—friends, family, kids. Your boat gets heavier, but you don’t mind. You’re in this together, right?
Except… they’re tired. They want to rest. Or maybe they want to take the boat in another direction. But instead of waiting for them, you keep rowing. Alone. Carrying the weight of both your hearts, the relationship, the dreams you share.
Then it gets harder. One of their people throws an oar overboard. You now only have one. The current’s picking up. There are enough life jackets for everyone—except you. But still, you keep paddling. You keep going. Against the current. Because they asked you to. Because maybe if you just try harder, they’ll meet you halfway again. Maybe then, it’ll feel like love.
But here’s the truth that anxious attachment doesn’t like to admit:
You don’t have to keep rowing.
You don’t have to keep steering the relationship in a direction that leaves you gasping for air while everyone else gets to rest.
You can stop.
You can say: this isn’t working for me.
You can take the oar you do have and guide yourself to shore. You can put on your own life jacket and choose to save you.
Because at some point, you have to ask:
At what cost am I keeping this boat afloat?
And when do my needs finally come first?
You are allowed to want peace.
You are allowed to want reciprocity.
You are allowed to get off the boat.
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