When the Roses Wilt

Petals and promises. Sometimes, love can really feel like poetry.

Late-night confessions and dreams of futures spoken, yet never acted upon. The symbolism of red roses crossing oceans might seem like a carefully chosen gesture, cloaked in tenderness, laced with promise. It feels like truth.

But what if it is all an illusion?

What happens when the petals wilt and the mantle drops?

People often say time is a healer. But in my experience, it is a great revealer. As the days unfold, you begin to notice the subtle shifts that you once ignored. The facade starts to crack. Quiet selfishness seeps, not new, but now more noticeable. It was always there, merely overshadowed by charm and carefully curated words. More empty words. Sigh.

You feel it in the deflections, the slight digs, the constant comparisons. The defensiveness triggered by the most basic questions. That rejection is loud, especially when the narrative painted is that of a carefully preserved self image, not about telling the truth.

For me, it's familiar. It's what I have always known from my family of origin – broken promises and transactional love.

Love, real love, builds, evolves, encourages. It stays present in discomfort, knowing that without the thorns, the rose wouldn’t be complete.

If you've ever mistaken distance for depth, or control for chemistry, then you've seen connection unravel swiftly into contention and confusion. If you’ve been vulnerable in a space that once felt safe, poured out your heart and received only fragments in return, you may wonder, What changed? But maybe nothing did. Maybe you just took off the rose-tinted glasses and finally saw things clearly.

It takes time to unlearn the stories we tell ourselves. To pull apart the fantasy from fact. To realise that sometimes, love was merely hope projected onto someone who didn’t have the capacity to carry it.

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." – Romans 15:13

Sometimes, in our longing for that overflow, we overlook what’s right in front of us. And when clarity comes, it doesn’t always arrive with grace. Sometimes it shows up as discomfort. As resistance. As a shift in energy you can no longer ignore.

The most heartbreaking part isn’t the ending itself. It’s grieving the dreams that were never realised. The time that now feels wasted. The family you'd imagined. The life you planned and prayed for. Cousins playing together. Nana coaxing your children. And the sharp questioning of your own discernment —How didn’t I see this? How could I have been so wrong about people I've known so well?

It’s easy to repeat mantras like:

“I choose peace over promises.”

“I choose presence over potential.”

But when you're deep in the ache, how do you apply any of that?

You’re not bitter. You’re awakened. You’re forgiving. But you're just tired, tired of giving grace to people who don't deserve it, and who never extend it to you in return.

So if you, like me, have ever romanticised disrespect, overlooked dishonesty, allowed your boundaries to be breached, or accepted less than you deserved in the name of love.

Know this:

You are not alone.

Some people will spiritualise their poor behaviour and dare to attach God’s name to it. But you don’t. You know better. And that awareness doesn’t come from self-righteousness; it comes from self-awareness and healing.

Honour your intuition. Listen to your heart. It always speaks the truth. The presence of love through words should never outweigh the actions that prove it. And sometimes, the most loving thing you can do for yourself is to walk away.

Not every rose is meant to be kept.

Some were only ever meant to show you what you truly deserve.

You will be okay.

God’s got you, jewel. 💛

xo èsjé