Ah yes. My early 20s, full of big dreams, cheap wine, and one very charming, muscle bound, walking red flag!

​

We were serious. Traveled overseas, lived together, all the things that made it feel real. He worked in a nightclub, which sounds sexy until you realise it’s less "rom-com bartender" and more "walking ego boost in a DJ booth".

Girls flirted for free drinks, and he lapped it up like it was his job. Maybe it was.

​

He never left his phone unattended. Ever. And when I questioned anything? I was “crazy”. “Jealous.” “Too much.”
Cue the love bombs — flowers, texts, plans for our future. he would buy me sapphire rings because it was the one detail he remembered, my birthstone. Gaslighting wrapped in affection.

​

Then came my nursing placement out of town, a big step for me, a big opportunity. He stayed behind, hosting his interstate cousin, who was going to help us move house. Translation: a bro-fest of clubbing, chaos, and girls. I left money for removalists and cleaners. Came home early to a trashed apartment that screamed after-party. Girls' panties included.

When I called him out, he blamed the cousin. Naturally. And I believed him. Because love makes you dumb, and denial feels safer than truth.

A few months later, I dropped him at work. His car was getting fixed. As we pulled up, a girl saw us in the car. Her face? Instant regret. She turned and bolted. But I knew her. And I knew something was off. So I found her number. Texted her.
Guess what? They’d been seeing each other.

Cue the Oscar-worthy begging. I forgave him. Again. Apparently, my studying made him feel “neglected.” (Barf.)

​

Fast forward another few months. One night, I’m studying late at the uni library and decide to crash at Mum’s nearby. He agrees way too quickly. My gut screamed. So, at 1am, I drove across town.

The second I opened the door, I knew.

There she was, that girl, her friends, wine, laughter. She was staying the night. And guess what? She didn’t know we were still together either. Because he was running the same script in multiple cinemas.

I locked myself in the bathroom with his phone (bless drunk men and no passcodes). What I found?
Messages. Dozens.
Club toilet hookups. Flirty DMs. Secret meetups.
My gut hadn’t lied. But he had. Over and over.

​

That night broke me open, but it also broke me free.

I didn’t just walk away. I walked up, into a version of myself that was sharper, smarter, and done being played.

​

I learned to trust my gut over sweet words. I learned that love without honesty is just manipulation in a nice outfit. And most of all? I learned that I am no one’s second option, side piece, or scapegoat.

​

Since then, I’ve honed that strength. Sharpened it. Owned it.

Now I’m that girl, the one my friends call when they need clarity, confidence, or just someone to say, “No babe, you’re not crazy, he’s just trash.”

I didn’t just survive the mess, I studied it, I educated myself, I saw and helped people at their most vulnerable. I turned it into medicine.

And now I hand out the antidote.