I Looked for Myself and Realized I Was Gone

My name is Min-Jae.

I’m from South Korea, and for a long time, I thought losing myself was just part of loving someone deeply. I didn’t see it as a problem. I saw it as commitment. Devotion. Proof that I wasn’t selfish.

I was wrong.

When I met her, my life still had shape. I had routines. Friends. Opinions. Things I cared about that had nothing to do with anyone else. Slowly, almost gently, those things started to disappear—and I didn’t fight it. I told myself it was normal. That this is what happens when you really care.

I adjusted my schedule to hers.
I changed my habits to match her moods.
I stopped doing things she didn’t like—even if I loved them.

At first, it felt like compromise. Then it became instinct.

I was always available. Always understanding. Always the one who said, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” even when it clearly wasn’t okay. I learned how to read her tone, how to anticipate her needs, how to make myself smaller so I wouldn’t cause friction.

She never asked me to do this.

That’s the part that hurts the most.

I gave because I wanted to be necessary. I thought if I became essential enough, irreplaceable enough, she would care. But the more I gave, the less visible I became. My opinions stopped mattering. My exhaustion became background noise. My feelings felt like an inconvenience—even to myself.

One day, she forgot something important to me. Not maliciously. Just… casually. And when I tried to explain why it hurt, she looked confused. Not defensive. Not apologetic.

Confused.

That’s when it hit me: she didn’t know me well enough to hurt me on purpose.

I went home that night and tried to distract myself. Tried to do something I used to enjoy. I sat there, staring at the screen, and realized I didn’t know what I liked anymore. My playlists were hers. My routines were hers. Even my thoughts felt filtered through what she might think.

I had become a support system with no center.

I asked myself a simple question that terrified me:
If she disappeared tomorrow, who would I be?

I didn’t have an answer.

I wasn’t angry at her. She didn’t steal my identity. I handed it over piece by piece, convinced that love meant surrender. No one ever told me that love without boundaries isn’t love—it’s slow erasure.

The realization didn’t come with relief. It came with grief. Grief for the version of me who used to laugh easily. Who had opinions. Who didn’t need permission to exist fully.

I pulled back quietly. Not to punish her. Not to make a statement. I just… stopped giving everything. She noticed eventually. Asked if something was wrong.

I almost said “no.”

Old habits die hard.

But this time, I didn’t lie. I told her I was tired. I told her I needed space. She nodded. She said she understood. And life went on—mostly unchanged for her.

That told me everything I needed to know.

I’m still rebuilding. Slowly. Awkwardly. Some days, I feel empty. Other days, I feel angry at myself for letting it go so far. But underneath all of that, there’s something new forming.

Respect.

I learned this too late, but I’ll say it anyway:

If you have to disappear to keep someone close,
they were never holding you in the first place.

My name is Min-Jae.
And I’m learning how to exist again.