I wasn’t very good at it—
and truth is,
it wasn’t very good
for me.

I give too much.
Try too hard.
Fall too fast.
And forget…
to breathe.

It’s not the people.
It’s not the place.
It’s the hope I hold,
the pace I chase.
The kind of happiness
I keep reaching for—
maybe it was never meant
to be.

Love—
or what I thought was love—
left me empty.
Not whole.
And not for lack of trying.
I gave it all.
My heart.
My soul.

But I’ve learned something soft,
something real:
What’s not good for me
still hurts…
even when it looks
like love.

What is good for me?
It’s quieter.
Gentler.
Steady.

It’s the laughter
of my family.
The stillness
of the trees.
It’s in the work
that feels honest—
in friendships
that don’t ask me
to be less…
or more.

It’s peace
in the mirror.
Peace
in the morning.
Peace
in just being.

That’s what’s good
for me.

So when I go—
when the story ends—
remember me
not for the love I lost,
but for the peace
I tried to give.

I’ll leave it with you.
Soft as a whisper.
Quiet as a prayer.

That—
that right there—
is what’s good
for me.