In everyday life, we rely on the fine art of compromise to keep relationships running smoothly — love, business, family, friendships. In those spaces, compromise can feel like finesse. The final polish at the end of a good sentence. Functional. Necessary. Sometimes even kind.
But compromise has a limit.
When something reaches its point of death — however it arrives, wherever it strikes — something breaks. The rhythm changes. Old scars reopen, reminding us of past losses, regrets, hurts, and slights we thought we had already made peace with.
If you are a woman, it’s worse.
Our lives are like a purse. Every single item inside touches everything else within reach. Nothing is isolated. For us — for me — it’s all connected. Past, present, future collapse into one another. What we thought was resolved resurfaces. What we buried reminds us it was only ever waiting.
Universally, I think this is how women experience life.
Some things we shove so deep into the purse that we forget they ever existed. Until the death happens. And then we remember how fragile the ego is. How fragile emotions are. How fragile relationships are. How fragile existence really is.
And then we begin again.
Whitney Houston once asked, Where do broken hearts go? Can they find their way home? I like to believe they can. That a broken heart can find its way home again after a sordid end — not untouched, but intact in a different way.
Before the death arrives, we feel everything. Fear. Excitement. Adrenaline. Hope. Anger. Illusion. Bargaining. Feigned ignorance. We drop to the floor and bow our heads to pray. Surely prayer will stop the inevitable. Surely compromise will save us.
Being human sucks.
Wouldn’t it be easier if we could let things go so completely that we forget they ever existed? But if that were truly possible — did we ever cherish the experience at all? Was it ever as meaningful as we believed?
For what it’s worth, I believe all experiences are worthy.
Even the ones that end.
