The Life She Could Have Lived | Written by Rosalyn St. Claire

The Lives She Could Have Lived...
A quiet reflection on missed loves, the ache of almost, and choosing herself anyway.

Lately, it felt like she was walking through echoes.

She’d see them—men she once knew. Men who, at one point, had wanted to build something with her. Some were Black, some white. Some were fiery and wild, others soft and steady. Now, they were husbands. Fathers. Business owners. They carried lives that looked full, rooted, and certain.

And quietly, without shame, she wondered: what if?

Not because she still wanted them—but because she sometimes revisited the versions of herself that once stood at the edge of almost-love and chose not to step forward. What didn’t she see back then? What part of her hesitated? Was she protecting her heart from shattering—or her spirit from shrinking?

Some of those men spoke of forever. Some held her like home. Still, she walked away. Or didn’t lean in far enough to stay.

There were moments—soft aches disguised as passing thoughts—where something in her stirred. A quiet grief, wrapped in nostalgia. Not quite regret. Just... wondering. Could she have been a wife by now? A mother? Waking beside a man who once looked at her like she held his whole world?

But then she saw the woman she had become.

The voice that had grown within her. The healing she’d done. The way she now loved—more aware, more rooted, more real. And she knew: if she had chosen one of them, she wouldn’t be this version of herself. She might have been loved, yes—but would she have felt free?

Would she have found her rhythm? Her truth? Her self?

Maybe those men weren’t meant to stay. Maybe she wasn’t meant to go.

But this—this life, this unfolding—was hers.

It was okay to grieve the lives she didn’t live. Okay to feel a small tug when she saw them now, walking with wives and holding babies. But it was also okay—more than okay—to feel proud. Proud that she didn’t choose from fear. Proud that she didn’t settle for a version of love that asked her to be less.

She had chosen uncertainty. She had chosen growth. She had chosen herself—even before she fully knew who that was.

And now, here she stood: still becoming. Still worthy.

They hadn’t just lost the chance to build something with her—she hadn’t lost anything that was truly hers. Because if it was meant for her, it would have stayed.

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Reflection

There’s a particular tenderness in acknowledging the lives we almost lived.

The men who once glimpsed something bright in us—something worth choosing—and for reasons even we didn’t always understand, we said no. Or didn’t say yes in time. Or walked away with a heart still turning back.

It’s tempting to romanticize those untaken roads, to believe something precious slipped away. But what if what truly happened was this: she made space. For deeper knowing. For real love. For the woman she needed to meet inside herself.

This isn’t a story of regret. It’s a story of becoming. Of recognizing, with grace, that her life isn’t sitting behind someone else’s front door—it’s here, alive inside her, unfolding every single day she chooses herself.

And maybe… just maybe…
That was the real love story all along.

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