In Choosing Yourself, You Choose God Too - The Gita Reminds Us

There comes a moment in every person’s life—quiet and almost cruel in its clarity—when you finally realize: you weren’t loving, you were abandoning yourself. You gave pieces of yourself, not because they were asked for, but because somewhere deep down, you believed that love had to hurt to be real. You told yourself it was noble. That goodness meant staying. That kindness meant forgiving endlessly. That being selfless was the right thing to do—even when it broke you a little more each time. But here’s the truth no one told you loud enough: That wasn’t love. That was self-erasure. And you confused your own dishonor for loyalty.


We grow up being taught that love is sacrifice. And it is—to an extent. Love means compromise, patience, understanding. But there’s a difference between meeting someone halfway and walking all the way to them while they never take a step. You kept shrinking, softening your tone, apologizing for your emotions, convincing yourself that if you just loved harder, they’d finally change. That they’d see you. Choose you. But they didn’t. And every time they didn’t, you gave more. That’s not love. That’s self-abandonment dressed in hope.
Real love—healthy, grounded, divine love—doesn’t require your suffering as proof. It doesn’t thrive in imbalance. It doesn’t feed on your silence. It doesn’t reward your disappearance. In fact, the moment you start disappearing to make someone else feel comfortable, that’s the moment love has already left the room.


You thought forgiveness made you stronger. You thought enduring pain made you wiser. You thought staying was spiritual. And it can be—when it’s rooted in awareness. But what if the forgiveness wasn’t about peace? What if it was about fear? Fear that choosing yourself meant you were selfish. That walking away meant you gave up too soon. That saying “enough” made you unloving. But it never did.
Forgiving someone who keeps hurting you isn’t compassion—it’s slow self-betrayal. Especially when they show no desire to grow, no accountability, no change. That’s not your duty. That’s your prison. There’s no glory in sacrificing your soul so someone else can feel powerful. There’s no virtue in staying where you are dishonored. And God—the real God, the one who made you in love—never asked for your destruction as proof of your goodness.


You were never meant to be the one holding everyone else together at the cost of yourself. You were meant to give, yes—but not your dignity. Not your peace. Not the core of your being. What you called selflessness was actually survival. You learned to love others more than yourself because no one ever taught you your worth. So you gave and gave until there was nothing left, hoping someone would finally say, “You’re enough.”
But they didn’t. Because people treat you how you treat yourself. And slowly, something inside you began to die—the fire, the laughter, the joy that was once so natural. You forgot what it felt like to be whole, to be grounded, to be enough without needing to be needed. You weren’t meant to be a martyr. You were meant to be a mirror—of love, of wisdom, of light. A reflection of God’s presence within you. And that begins by honoring yourself.


The moment you choose yourself—not out of ego, not out of spite, but from a place of finally remembering who you are—everything begins to shift. You stop trying to prove your worth to people who never deserved a front-row seat in your life. You stop watering dead plants. You stop confusing pain with purpose. You start walking away—not in anger, but in clarity. Not with bitterness, but with boundaries.
You start building a life that honors your soul, that reflects the God in you. Because when you choose yourself, you choose the divine spark you were created with. And when you do that, you’re not turning away from love. You’re finally turning toward it.

You are not here to be emptied by others. You are here to be filled with light and spill that light into the world—not from a place of lack, but from the overflow of a self you no longer betray. And that begins the moment you stop calling your self-destruction love. And finally choose the one person who’s always been worthy of it: you.