I found a book, Man's Search for Meaning, sitting in someone else's dorm room, and I remembered for the first time in a long time that I was actually here for a reason. That the suffering wasn't a sign I was doing it wrong.
That decision cracked something open.
I remembered That living with meaning was the whole point.
Make enough money and then find a partner. Buy the house and put up a decent fence. I was right on track with a finance degree I've never used, a job I was good at, and at 27, an engagement to an incredible woman.
And then something in me just... couldn't.
I didn't really have language for it, but I knew that the life I was living, wasn't mine. Ending that engagement was the first time I chose myself in the face of disappointing people who were supposed to love me unconditionally. I'd always blown things up before. Sabotaged or snuck out the back door. This was the first time I actually walked out the front.