Permission to Leave

Confessions of a Late Bloomer Part 9

I remember being on a date once.
A bad one.

The man had introduced himself as a comedian,
and I kept waiting for him to get funny.
Instead, he complained. A lot.

He told me about the city he used to live in,
how his old stand-up crew would stay out late after shows.
How no one did that here.
How disappointing everyone was.

And before we’d even ordered,
a sinking suspicion hit me:
Maybe they didn’t stop staying out late.
Maybe they just stopped inviting him.

He was morose.
It clung to his skin like a bad cologne.

I escaped to the bathroom, pulled out my phone,
and almost texted my friend:
“How long do I have to stay to be polite?”

And then, right there in the fluorescent glow of that cheap restaurant bathroom,
it hit me:

I can just leave.

I don’t have to ask for permission.
I don’t have to explain.
I don’t have to stay somewhere that drains the life out of me just to be “nice.”

So I raised my chin,
walked back to the table,
and said, calmly,
“I feel complete in our encounter.”

And then I left.
No apology. No overexplaining.
Just me, choosing myself.
Finally.

It wasn’t the first time I’d stayed longer than I should have.

There was the man I dated who embarrassed me at one of my best friend’s weddings,
getting drunk, making a scene, crying, and pushing dramatically away from the table.
So much so that one of the husbands barricaded him near the bathroom just to keep the evening from imploding.

He ruined what should have been a beautiful, special moment for me, witnessing my friend — crying that he loved me more than I loved him.

And the terrible truth was:
In that moment,
I knew I didn’t love him at all.

But his mother had just died.
And somewhere in my head, I decided that my discomfort didn’t matter.
That kindness meant staying.
That compassion meant sacrificing my own peace for someone else’s grief.

I didn’t leave.
Not right away.

It wasn’t until I sat around a table with my girlfriends,
women who mirrored back to me what I couldn’t yet see,
that I realized:

Staying in something rotten isn’t kindness.
It’s self-abandonment.

I didn’t learn early how to leave.
I didn’t learn early how to trust that my needs mattered.
I didn’t learn early how to put my own peace above someone else’s comfort.

I learned it late.

Late blooming means you gather your voice slower.
You stretch into your boundaries more carefully.
You unlearn the stories that told you love was sacrifice, and kindness was staying small.

And when you finally get it?
It blooms fast.
And big.
And it changes everything.

Now?
I leave the table when the energy turns sour.
I end the date when the air grows heavy.
I trust the knowing in my body more than the rules written to keep me small.
I speak up when something doesn’t sit right,
even when my voice shakes.

Because love, real love, even self-love,
isn’t about shrinking to fit.
It’s about honoring what you feel.
Trusting what your body knows.
Leaving when you need to leave,
without waiting for permission.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤️