Could Have Had it All

As I go throughout the rest of this year without my boyfriend, without my best friend, I’m realizing something I wish I didn’t have to realize:

There is still grief.

There are still flashbacks.

There are still moments when something feels missing inside of me.

I can look back and be grateful. I can smile at the memories. I can thank God that I got to experience something so beautiful in the first place. I can recognize how much I have grown and how much I have learned.

And yet, somehow, there is still a sting.

It’s just hidden underneath the bandage now.

It doesn’t bleed the way it once did, but every once in a while, something brushes against it and reminds me that the wound is still there.

Maybe that is what healing actually looks like sometimes. Not forgetting. Not suddenly waking up one morning and realizing you don't care anymore. Maybe it is simply learning how to carry something that once felt too heavy to hold.

And strangely enough, one of the places I have found myself thinking about all of this is a show I loved when I was seven years old.

Liv and Maddie.

As a seven-year-old, I didn't understand the deeper parts of the story. I just thought it was fun.

It was about sisters who were so incredibly different but somehow fit together perfectly. Liv was the actress and the glamorous one, while Maddie was the athlete and the more grounded one. There was Joey, the older brother whose awkwardness and nerdiness somehow made him lovable, and Parker, the little brother who was constantly building things, creating chaos, and somehow making every situation ten times more ridiculous.

I loved it.

I loved watching the Rooney family because, in my little seven-year-old mind, I thought, That can be me one day.

I saw myself in the sister dynamic because I had my own sister. I understood the teasing, the closeness, the disagreements, and the strange way sisters can be both best friends and absolute annoyances within the same five minutes.

My mom used to say something that became almost a little motto in our household:

“Sisters by choice, friends by chance.”

And I loved that.

I loved watching Joey's awkwardness because it reminded me of my own brother and his nerdiness, his action figures, and all the little things that made him him. I loved Parker because every family needs the little sibling who somehow manages to turn an ordinary afternoon into complete chaos.

Back then, I watched the show simply because it was funny.

Now, watching it older, I understand the deeper meaning of it.

And honestly?

I connect with the characters in ways I wish I didn't.

When I was seven, I imagined what my life would look like someday.

Now I understand grief.

I understand annoyance.

I understand happiness.

I understand the butterflies.

I understand the complicated feeling of loving someone and not knowing where that love is supposed to go.

I understand what it means to look back at something and realize that some things cannot simply be rewritten.

And one song from that show hits differently now.

“True Love” by Dove Cameron.

As a child, it was catchy.

As a teenager walking through heartbreak, it is harder to listen to.

Because suddenly, the song isn't just a song anymore.

It feels like someone found the words I didn't know how to say.

It carries regret. Unrequited love. Bad timing. Longing. The ache of wondering what might have happened if you had just done one thing differently.

And that word—different—gets me.

Different.

What if I had said something sooner?

What if I had recognized something sooner?

What if I had handled things differently?

What if I had been better?

What if I had known then what I know now?

The questions pile up.

Would have.

Could have.

Should have.

Three little phrases that can absolutely destroy you when you let them.

Because there is a version of me that lives in the alternate timeline.

The version who said the right thing.

The version who didn't hesitate.

The version who made the perfect decision at the perfect moment.

The version who somehow figured out how to prevent everything from falling apart.

And sometimes I wish I could visit her.

Just for a minute.

Just to see what happened.

Because maybe in that version, I wouldn't be sitting here crying.

Maybe I wouldn't be sitting here with questions.

Maybe I wouldn't feel this strange mixture of numbness and longing.

Maybe I wouldn't wonder if I could have been better.

Maybe I wouldn't have to miss you.

And then there is the part that hurts the most:

You live so close.

I know the turns.

I know the roads.

I know how near you actually are.

And there is something uniquely painful about knowing that someone who feels so far away is physically so close.

It isn't thousands of miles.

It isn't another country.

It isn't some impossible distance.

It's just a few roads.

A few turns.

A few minutes.

And yet, I can't drive my way back into what we were.

That's what makes “I could have had it all” hurt so much.

Because I know exactly how close I was to a life I imagined.

I know what it felt like to hold something I thought might last.

And now I have to live with the reality that proximity doesn't equal possibility.

I could have had you.

And maybe that is what my heart has been grieving all along—not only who you were, but who I thought we could become.

The future I pictured.

The conversations we never got to have.

The memories we never made.

The ordinary Tuesdays that never happened.

The holidays.

The late-night conversations.

The stupid inside jokes.

The growing older together.

All those tiny, completely ordinary things that somehow became extraordinary in my imagination.

I knew what I had.

That's the hardest part.

I knew it was rare.

I knew it was special.

I knew true love wasn't something you stumble into every five minutes. It took time. It took trust. It took knowing someone, being known by someone, and allowing your heart to become attached.

And if I could have gotten it back, I know the girl I am today would have fought so hard to never let it go.

But maybe that is exactly where another lesson from Liv and Maddie comes in.

In Season 3, Episode 16, there is a moment where the reality of a relationship ending is being faced, and there is a line that hits me completely differently now:

“Sometimes you date someone and it just doesn’t work out.”

As a kid, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about that line.

Now?

I understand it.

Maybe that's one of the hardest things to accept about losing someone you loved.

Sometimes there isn't a villain.

There isn't one person you can point to and say, You ruined everything.

Sometimes two people can care about each other and still not work out.

Sometimes the timing is wrong.

Sometimes people change.

Sometimes circumstances change.

Sometimes you make mistakes.

Sometimes you wish you had handled things differently.

And sometimes, despite everything, it still doesn't work.

That doesn't mean the love wasn't real.

It doesn't mean the memories weren't meaningful.

It doesn't mean one person was terrible and the other was perfect.

It just means that sometimes two people can be important to each other and still reach a place where they cannot continue together.

And I think that's part of what makes my grief so complicated.

Because I don't necessarily want to be angry.

I don't want to rewrite the entire story and convince myself it was all bad just so it would be easier to let go.

It wasn't all bad.

There was so much good.

There was laughter.

There were butterflies.

There were conversations I will always remember.

There was a friendship underneath the relationship that mattered deeply to me.

There was a version of my life where having you in it felt normal.

And maybe that's why I still have moments where I think:

But we could have made it.

Maybe we could have.

Maybe we couldn't.

I'll never know.

And that's where I have to stop trying to solve something that God has already allowed to end.

Because sometimes the answer isn't that somebody was the bad guy.

Sometimes the answer is simply:

It didn't work out.

And somehow, that can hurt just as much.

Because when nobody is the villain, you don't have anyone to hate.

You just have someone to miss.

Maybe that's what I've been struggling to understand.

I don't need to turn you into someone I hate in order to heal.

I don't need to convince myself that the relationship meant nothing.

I don't need to erase the beautiful parts just because the ending hurt.

I don't need to pretend I didn't love you.

I can acknowledge that something was beautiful and still acknowledge that it ended.

I can be grateful and heartbroken at the same time.

I can miss someone without needing them back.

I can love what something was without demanding that it become what it can no longer be.

And then there is the part of my faith that interrupts the heartbreak.

Because maybe it was never mine to keep.

Maybe it was never mine to bring back.

Maybe God allowed one of us to let go because He knew something I didn't.

And that doesn't make it hurt less.

It just gives the hurt somewhere to go.

I can miss something and still trust God with it.

I can wish things had been different and still believe God knew what He was doing.

I can admit that I would have chosen differently without believing that I actually should have.

Because hindsight is cruel.

Hindsight makes us believe that if we had possessed the knowledge we have now back then, we could have controlled the ending.

But maybe we couldn't.

Maybe some endings are not punishments.

Maybe some endings are protection.

Maybe some people are gifts for a season, even when every part of you wanted them to be a lifetime.

And then there is that other line from the song—the idea of knowing then what I know now.

That is the fantasy my mind keeps returning to.

If I knew then...

If I knew what would happen.

If I knew how much I would miss you.

If I knew how much it would hurt.

If I knew that one day I would be driving down familiar roads and wondering how someone could feel so close and so unreachable at the same time.

Maybe I would have done everything differently.

Maybe we would have been okay.

Maybe I could have had it all.

But I also know something now that I didn't know then:

Knowing the ending doesn't mean I was supposed to change it.

Sometimes we think if we could just go back, we could save everything.

But God doesn't ask me to live backward.

He asks me to trust Him forward.

So I will.

Even when the memories come back.

Even when a song catches me off guard.

Even when I pass a familiar road.

Even when I remember the person I was when I still thought the story was going to end differently.

Even when I miss my boyfriend.

Even when I miss my best friend.

Even when there is still that empty space I don't quite know how to explain.

I can grieve and still be grateful.

I can miss you and still move forward.

I can acknowledge that I would have never let you go while accepting that you were never mine to hold forever.

And maybe that's the hardest lesson of all:

Something can be real without being permanent.

Something can be beautiful without being yours forever.

Something can change you without staying beside you.

And love can be incredibly valuable even when it doesn't end the way you prayed it would.

So yes, there are still days when I think,

I could have had it all.

But maybe I need to stop finishing that sentence with you.

Maybe I need to let God finish it.

Because maybe what I thought was “having it all” was only one small piece of what He is still writing.

Maybe the life I imagined wasn't the only beautiful life available to me.

Maybe the future I lost isn't the future God has for me.

And maybe healing isn't about convincing myself that I never needed you.

Maybe it's about trusting that God can take the space your absence created and teach me that emptiness doesn't have to be permanent.

Someday, when I look back at this chapter, I don't want to only remember what I lost.

I want to remember what God taught me.

I'll remember how deeply I could love.

I'll remember the little girl who watched Liv and Maddie and believed her future would look exactly like the stories she watched on television.

And I'll smile at her.

Because she was right about one thing.

Life really is full of stories.

Some are funny.

Some are chaotic.

Some are filled with butterflies.

Some end in heartbreak.

And some endings make absolutely no sense until years later.

But I'm learning to trust the Author anyway.

Even with the pages that still sting.

Even with the chapters I wish I could rewrite.

Even with the people I wish I could bring back.

Because maybe I didn't lose everything.

Maybe I simply reached the end of something God never asked me to carry into the next chapter.

Maybe the story didn't fail.

Maybe it simply changed.

And maybe, for now, that has to be enough.

Because sometimes you love someone.

Sometimes you give them a piece of your heart.

Sometimes you genuinely believe they might be part of your forever.

And sometimes, despite all of that,

it just doesn't work out.

There doesn't have to be a villain.

There doesn't have to be hatred.

There doesn't have to be a perfectly satisfying explanation.

Sometimes there is simply love, loss, grief, gratitude, and a road forward.

And when nobody is the villain, you don't have anyone to hate.

You just have someone to miss.

So I'll miss you.

I'll grieve you.

I'll be grateful for you.

I'll remember you.

But I will also keep walking.

Because God is still writing.

And I don't want to spend the rest of my life staring at the page He already turned.