I Wasn’t Healed, I Just Wasn’t Triggered: Confessions of A Former Anxious-Attached Person

Matthew: The Man I Thought Was “The One” (Just Like All The Others)

I met Matthew in January 2021, and within days, I knew he was the one.

I had just done a New Year’s meditation, asking the universe to show me what my future husband looked like. 9 days later, I matched with Mathew. He was 6’5, blonde, blue-eyed, thin with a somewhat shy, fragile appeal—he looked exactly like what I had envisioned. It felt like fate.

The only thing was… I had never really been into blondes.

I never even looked at blonde men twice, but suddenly, Matthew was everything. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. 

This is it, I told myself. I've finally found the “The One”.

Like always, I dove in headfirst.

Within a week, I told him I loved him.

I was already planning our wedding in my head, imagining how my name looked next to his.

I was… not tethered to any form of reality. 

But I had done this before. Almost every man I dated, I thought was “the one.” Every time I met someone new, I convinced myself this is it. This time, it’s real. But it never was.

Matthew was different—or at least, I told myself he was.

He was shy, boyish, nerdy, and culturally aware. We talked about race, politics, and social issues—things most men I dated never truly understood. He wasn’t like the dominant, emotionally unavailable men I usually fell for.

But he was also hesitant, reserved, and deeply insecure.

And for the first time, I had to chase.

The more he pulled away, the harder I chased.

The harder I chased, the more he withdrew.

And the more he withdrew, the more desperate I became to force my way into his life.

It became my personal mission: Make him love me.

There was no absolutely sexual chemistry whatsoever, but I ignored that. I convinced myself that this time, it didn’t matter. That this time, love would be different.

But it wasn’t love. It was my anxious attachment style seeping into yet another manic episode.

Looking back, I feel like I was completely dissociated the entire time.

It’s like I blacked out for weeks.

I was making wedding plans in my head.

I was seeing how my name looked next to his.

I was imagining our life together as if it was already real.

I felt like I had coked out of my mind the entire time.

Everything was moving at hyper-speed. I was talking fast, thinking fast, feeling fast.

And meanwhile, he was pulling away. He was unsure. Hesitant. And instead of taking that as a sign to slow down, I doubled down.

The breaking point came when I told him I still wanted to see my Dom, whom I had been in an ongoing arrangement with for over a year. I wasn’t a cheater—I believed in transparency.

But Matthew couldn’t handle it. His last words still echo in my mind:

“You don’t let me be a man.”

And he was right. I had been emasculating him, aggressively stepping in waiting for him to step up in ways he simply couldn’t.

When it ended, I was devastated. But why? I barely even knew him.

That’s when it hit me.

I wasn’t healed—I was just wasn't exposed to the triggers.

2018: The Ex Before Him—Who I Also Thought Was “The One”

Matthew wasn’t the first man I thought was the one.

I had thought that about my ex in 2018, too.

We met, went on one date, exchanged I love yous that same night, and I moved in immediately. I had done this before—rushing, clinging, convincing myself that urgency meant connection.

For two and a half years, I did everything I could to prove I was worthy of love.

He made me split rent, knowing I could barely afford it, and used that against me. He paid more, so he constantly reminded me of it. Meanwhile, I did everything else—bought groceries, cooked, cleaned, made sure our home ran smoothly.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

In January 2020, he gave me an ultimatum:

“It’s either me or Black Ink Crew.”

I chose the show. I wanted to be a famous tattoo artist, to stop waiting tables and start building my name.

So, he kicked me out. Even though I was on the lease. Even though I had been paying rent.

Before I left, he handed me a $6,600 check—as if that was what my presence in his life was worth.

A slap in the face.

2020: Surviving, Not Healing

I had some money but nowhere stable to go.

I spent nights at a shitty motel in Venice, going on Bumble dates just so I had places to stay.

Eventually, I met a guy who was leaving for vacation and let me stay at his place while he was gone. It was temporary, but it gave me a moment to breathe.

Eventually, I found my own place. For the first time, I decided to be single.

I convinced myself that I was healing. I meditated, journaled, reflected. I wasn’t being hurt, so I assumed I was better.

Two years passed. I thought I was ready.

Then I met Matthew.

Healing Happens When You’re Triggered

The pandemic didn’t heal me—it just isolated me.

I wasn’t better. I wasn’t over my patterns. I just wasn’t being tested.

Matthew wasn’t different. He was another lesson. The final proof that I had not actually changed—I had just been alone.

Healing doesn’t happen in isolation. Healing happens when you’re triggered and choose to respond differently.

And when faced with Matthew, I responded exactly the same way I always had.

Final Thoughts: True Healing is Facing Your Triggers

I used to think love was instant connection. Intensity. Obsession.

I used to think if I just loved hard enough, if I proved my worth, the person would finally love me back.

But I was never in love.

I was an anxiously attached and manic mess, chasing a dopamine high,  convincing myself that every man was “the one”.

And real love doesn’t work like that.

So ask yourself:

1. Are you healed, or are you just not triggered?

2. Are you in love, or are has your attachment style clouded you judgement?

3. Have you grown, or have you just avoided facing what would prove otherwise?

That’s when you’ll know you’re truly free.