A Personal Letter to the Fear That's Still Keeping Me Stuck

What if the only thing keeping you stuck… is the fear that you can’t survive on your own?

If that hits something in you — you should probably keep reading.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m lying to myself when I say, “There comes a moment where you realise something needs to change.”

Because yes, maybe there is a moment like that — but for me, it hasn’t been one clean break or dramatic exit. And honestly, I probably would’ve liked that. I watched too much Dynasty in the 80s and turned into a bit of a drama queen. It’s been a slow, painful ache. A knowing that seeps in more and more until I can’t not feel it. So today, I want to take this apart. Not to perform clarity, but to try and actually find it. For myself. But maybe also for you, if you’re in a similar place, sitting in something that no longer fits, unable to move.

Let’s be real: emotionally, leaving my husband, leaving this marriage, is a concept that I still struggle to fully digest.

Practically? I get it. I know what would need to happen: I need financial independence again. I need to be back in a city. I’m a city man. I’ve lived in Berlin, London, Paris, Los Angeles. I always found a way to take care of myself in those places. But here? This tiny Swiss village has stripped something from me. I became dependent on him. Not just emotionally — financially. That’s the biggest reason I haven’t left yet.

And I know for a fact: if I had 15 to 20k saved up, I’d go. I’d book a place for a month or two, hop between cities, and find my next chapter. Easy. That’s how clear the logistics are.

Emotionally, though? I’m at 80%. That 20%? It’s a cocktail of fear, guilt, and old loyalty. Because I left before. Back in 2016. And when I did, I thrived. He crashed. And the second I found out he was spiralling, I rushed back in to save him. That’s my pattern. That’s my fear. That history will repeat. And maybe he’s grown since then. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I don’t want this to be another dramatic exit, only to take him back again. So some part of me says: if I’m not really going to leave, why even start the drama?

And then there’s the love.

Yes, this relationship has a lot of dysfunction. But it also has love. And predictability. He comes home. He puts me to sleep by scratching my back. There’s a kind of nervous system safety in that.

And that’s my trauma talking. As a child, I was always being passed around from my grandparents to my biological mother. There was always someone there physically. But emotionally? Abandonment. Silence. Chaos.

No one really saw me. No one really stayed.

So now, as an adult, physical presence still soothes me. Even if emotionally, I’m alone again. Even if the person next to me can’t meet me, hold me, see me. Just having someone there, breathing next to me in bed, calms something ancient in me.

And that’s the trap.

Because I mistake proximity for love. And I mistake familiarity for safety. And that’s what this is. He’s here. But not really.

And I’ve watched myself deteriorate over the last two years. I’ve been to more doctors, dealt with more health issues, than I have in the last fifteen combined. After years of being at least physically strong, my body is waving red flags. He watches. But he doesn’t act. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t show up. He just keeps going — with his work, his routines, his life.

And I’m there in the background, like some old pot left on the back burner, burning endlessly, being refilled with empty water, only to evaporate again. And honestly, There’s nothing left inside. Just smoke. Just the sound of something that used to boil with life, slowly drying out. Slowly evaporating.

My body is screaming for a change. And he just… lets it happen. He watches me struggle and continues to focus only on himself — escaping into nature, ignoring finances, acting like responsibility is optional. Meanwhile, I hold everything together. I carry the emotional weight, the budget, the mental load. I feel like his life manager, not his partner.

There’s resentment now. Not blame, not rage. Just a quiet, tired bitterness that comes from being unsupported while in plain sight.

What hurts most isn’t what he does. It’s what he doesn’t do. He could come to me and say, “I’m not happy. I need a change.” I’d support him. I always have. But he doesn’t. And whether it’s because he’s stuck or doesn’t care — that’s not mine to fix anymore.

And still, the financial reality is crushing. I’m not independent. I want to leave, but I’d be taking Loki — our dog — and essentially removing him from the only home he’s known. And I’d be doing it with no cushion. That’s what freezes me.

So I’ve narrowed my focus. I have two goals: get healthy, and make money. Simple to name. Hard to do. Especially when the last few weeks have looked like this: surgery, catheter-induced thrombosis in my arm, emergency dental visits, and medical bills I can’t afford. And beneath it all? The old childhood fear of money. I made a lot once. I also lost a lot. But the belief that I can do it again? That’s what’s missing.

Living in this isolated village has eaten away at my mind. My creativity. My drive. I’ve become digitally invisible. And yet, I know what I need to do: build up my offers. Reach out. Get coaching and web clients. Create. Sell. Engage.

But I’m scared.

I’ve realised that I have to emotionally let go of him — even while we still live together in a studio flat. Because otherwise, I will drown in resentment and pain. And I can’t do that anymore. I have to stop focusing on his life, our life, and start rebuilding mine. Because maybe that’s why I clung to the relationship so tightly. It let me avoid facing myself.

So this is where I’m leaving you today. Maybe you see yourself somewhere in this. Maybe you’ve already made it to the other side. If so, I’d love to know how.

Until then: I’m still in it. Still scared. Still fighting for clarity. Still trying to find the next brave step.

Help me out.

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Maybe you, or someone you know, needs someone like me.

Take care. Truly.

AlekMartin aka Whitetrashroyal.com