I was reading Rumi's Daughter the other day—wasn't expecting much, just something to pass time with. But then this one line caught me off guard. It didn't just sound deep. It landed. Like it had been waiting there, all along, for me to finally notice it.
It reminded me of this person I used to care about. Someone I thought I admired for all the right reasons—mostly because he loved God. I didn't realize how much I'd started to orbit around him until it was too late. Our friendship wasn't exactly stable—it was the kind where you never know what version of them you're going to get. And for some reason, that kept me there longer. Like I was trying to prove something. Or earn something. I don't know.
The quote from the book went:
"In the midst of total desolation, she realized that instead of being anchored in God, she had become dependent on Shams' ever-changing moods, and so lost her center. Now she understood! Without a center, there was only pain. That made the whole difference!"
And when I read that, I just sat there, staring at the page. Because that was me. That was exactly what I had done. I'd convinced myself that loving someone who loved God meant it was safe to get close. That somehow, through him, I could find God too. But that's not how it works. You can't find God through another person. You can't use someone as a mirror for something eternal.
And when it ended—when it all started to fall apart—I didn't just lose him. I lost the way I had been holding onto God. And that shook me more than I thought it would. It wasn't just heartbreak. It was something deeper. A kind of collapse I didn't have language for until then.
I used to think I was in love with him. But looking back, I think I just didn't want to lose the part of me that had felt close to God when he was around. It wasn't about him, not really. It was about what I thought he connected me to. And when he pulled away, I didn't just feel abandoned—I felt cut off from something sacred.
I think that's why it hurt the way it did. Because I'd made him the center, instead of God. And the second he shifted, I lost my balance. I didn't even realize how far I'd drifted until I hit the ground.
And maybe that's the lesson. That attachment isn't love. That needing someone to be your anchor is asking them to carry a weight they were never meant to hold. And when they can't—because of course they can't—it all crumbles.
The relationship. Your sense of self. Everything.
I still think about him sometimes. Not in a romantic way. Just in that quiet ache kind of way—when you remember someone who meant something, even if they're not around anymore. I don't blame him. Not really. I think we both got lost in something we didn't know how to hold.
But now I know better.
Love, real love, doesn't make you lose yourself.
Attachment does.
And that's what this was.
It wasn't love.
It was attachment.
And attachment—that was the fall.
"I searched for God and found only myself. I searched for myself and found only God."— Rumi