I had the infamous, dreaded experience of running into my ex last week.

He was with his new girlfriend, it was 100 percent awkward, and I’m still completely terrified thinking about it as I write this. We hugged, shared a brief hello, and went on our marry merry way.

If I'm being brutally honest, seeing him was hard. Seeing him with someone else was even harder. But witnessing my own reaction to the situation was easily hardest. I’ve spent many long showers and solo car rides practicing what I would do and say when we eventually (and inevitably) crossed paths.

And while nothing I ever compiled competes with Charlotte’s “I curse the day you were born!” zinger to Mr. Big, sending her into labor on "Sex in the City," my responses ranged from kind, gentle words to simple, less gentle gestures. But in that moment – seeing him, seeing her, and feeling my heart’s honest ache – I was genuinely uncertain of everything.

I’ve spent the last 18 months pushing myself to be over this relationship. I’ve been that kid who’s 59 inches tall, but who desperately wants to be 60 inches to ride the You’re Finally Over Him Roller Coaster at Six Flags (not actually a ride)– as if getting to that 60-inch mark wasn’t a roller coaster enough in itself.

I’ve layered socks until my shoes don’t fit, worn Sketcher Shape-ups for that extra platform, stood on my tippy toes, gelled my hair while wearing a Bump It, and all the rest. Sometimes it works, and I get to ride the roller coaster, and sometimes it doesn’t, and I don’t. When I don’t, it's clear that I’m really not quite at that 60-inch mark; and when I do, it’s a total freaking thrill, but only to be reminded when I eventually get off that – despite my best efforts – I’m still only 59 inches.

We can say “fake it till you make it” and “pretend until it’s real,” but truth is: you won’t be 60 inches until you’re 60 inches, and you won’t be over him until you’re straight up over him.

And I haven’t been over him.

Loving him has been my crutch since we broke up. It’s reminded me of the standards I have and what it feels like to be totally enveloped and so completely in love. It’s been evidence that organic, honest love undoubtedly exists. It’s been proof that I’m lovable, despite that being my deepest, most personal fear. It’s felt good to indulge in the past, comforting myself as I face the present. But this indulgence – this allowing of myself to reach back in time and to relive a love that no longer exists – is suffocating my future.

No one explains the negative side effects of love. No one tells you how badly it hurts, how achy the pains can be, or what it’ll feel like seeing someone you love(d), love someone else. In part because we don’t ask, wishfully hoping that love never fails us and that we happen to be the exception. But also because: if we haven’t been tortured by love, we don’t know how deeply it cuts or how inhuman that pain feels. And if we have experienced its sadistic consequence, we’re either currently distracted by the opposing goodness of love, or we simply don’t want to relive it.

Love can be one helluva high, but it can also suck. It can be totally fun and completing, and also zero fun and incredibly lonely. Despite its Geminian, two-faced nature, love is an undeniable element of life, with seasons that most of us will have to weather, no matter how diligently we try to avoid them.

I know that I’m a better person because I loved him, and I can only hope that he’s a better person because he loved me. Looking back, I know it wasn't perfect. But for the last year and a half I’ve seen myself evolve and change for the better, hoping that maybe he does, too. I've told myself that the circumstances at the time just weren’t right. That it was the long distance that strained us, and that I was wrong, giving up on us too soon. That I made my life's biggest mistake in letting him go.

But standing here now (and although all of those things still might be true) I know that who I am, in this moment right here, at this time and place – I know that all of this is all right. Even when I’m not.

Maybe there’s no such thing as a wrong time or a wrong place. Maybe there’s just wrong people.

So this is me still caring, but choosing to walk away. This is me taking off my double layered socks and Shape-ups, letting my hair down, and standing flat-footed. This is me honestly being enough for myself, for the first time in a very long time.

This is me at 60 inches.