Failure to Move On

Lately, the overwhelming pressure to get married and the growing feeling of lagging behind in life’s rat race have left me feeling deeply unsettled. This discomfort has pushed me into a period of reflection on past loves, relationships, and the lingering shadows of people I thought I’d forgotten. I’m writing this in a Starbucks in Osaka, and as I look back, I realize it has been a little over six years since my last serious relationship — perhaps, depending on how you define “serious,” my only one.

When I feel more isolated, I question whether I was ever meant to be in a relationship. My need for autonomy and my constant desire to connect with new people and experiences seem at odds with the ideals of monogamy. It’s in these moments I find myself thinking more and more about her.

I’ll call her Ahana, the name we had once thought to give a child we were naively planning to have someday. I’m fully aware of how corny this sounds, but finding another name that carries her emotional traces without disclosing her identity is difficult. So, Ahana it is.

Even as I type these words, I feel so much resistance because I am embarrassed and ashamed of the feelings I still hold for her. She moved on a long time ago to other relationships, while I too have tried and failed to do the same. For years, I convinced myself that I had moved on, never taking the time to fully consider what this process truly required.

Attempting to reject my feelings, I tried to avoid confronting the guilt over how I treated her and the fear that I might never feel the same way about someone else. I didn’t want to admit to myself that I still think about her. I tried to replace the space she once occupied with other people, things, experiences, and accomplishments, trying to convince myself that I was still deserving of love and capable of loving another, peacefully unperturbed by the past. I needed to show myself that all wasn’t lost.

But lately, it has become abundantly clear that my original, weakly formed conception of moving on — hastily pasted together from various sources in popular culture — has been challenging for me to achieve. I don’t want to run away anymore. I want to know if it’s possible to redefine this process in a way that allows me to move forward without letting go completely, still holding space for what I once felt. Is it possible to honor the impact she had on my life without forcibly erasing it?

To make sense of this, I want to present an alternative to the conventional understanding of moving on, hopefully offering a more self-compassionate approach built on acceptance. A concept through which one can still hold space for the memory and essence of the person they loved without needing to diminish, replace, or ignore the feelings once felt.

As I start to put myself out there to date again, I find it really important to be honest with whomever I meet. In the past, I wanted to act as though I had moved on, but the truth is, I haven’t. I don’t know if I can, and I’m not fully sure if I want to. I don’t want to hide the feelings I still hold for this woman with whom I shared such intimate, important, and profound experiences.

Love

Growing up, I couldn’t distinguish romantic love from lust; the latter always preceded the former, and the difference seemed far too negligible. I viewed relationships as an aesthetic, a status symbol. It was a way to display to the world a certain exuberance— that one was successful, happy, and competent. It was never about the internal experience of caring for another. Dating and marriage were simply means to an end, ensuring that I was safe and could successfully reproduce. Under this framework, I treated every person I was drawn to as a vessel, a means to achieve this. Even the kindest acts were deeply selfish at their core, always about how they would benefit me.

In 2016, my relationship with Ahana (I know it’s cringe; I’m trying to say the name as little as possible) began under a similar pretense. An on-and-off high school relationship had just ended, and I put myself out there again to distract myself from feeling the loss. But something about her felt different.

It was as if the boy hiding, curled up in the corner of a dark room

Finally glimpsed light when the door creaked slightly open

The person who entered didn’t tell him that it was all okay,

Didn’t say that he was being silly and childish for sitting alone in the room

Without words, she came and sat down next to him him,

Letting him know through her actions

That it was okay to take his time

That she would patiently wait for him

And that she believed in him.

That she saw the little traces of good that existed in him,

Even though he only hurt those around him.

She accepted him,

But didn’t allow him to become complacent,

Because she knew that he could be so much more.

Her faith, so strongly felt, came from having left her own dark room to join his.

She understood what it felt like to be alone.

To feel unseen.

Unwanted.

Undesired.

She took the boy’s hand when he was ready and helped him look around.

She showed him what color looked like again,

Showed him what it felt like to move his body

To find the rhythm that existed in every moment.

To find peace in every sunset.

And the vibrance in every butterfly.

To appreciate the unique contours of the moon each and every night.

To sing proudly to the world when the storm rained down.

She taught him to be compassionate to himself,

And to extend that understanding to those around him.

Rather than passing judgment

She taught that it is always better to listen

For it is only through listening does the world reveal itself.

Through her attentive listening, he opened up.

Time and time again,

She gave space for the boy to fail.

Fail.

And fail again he did.

She hoped that he would eventually come around to appreciating the power of her care.

Eventually, enough time passed,

And the boy finally felt courage to stand.

As he stood,

Confidently — no, arrogantly —

He stepped forward

Opened the door

And left.

As soon as he felt the sun hit his arms,

He forgot that it was only because of her efforts that he was able to stand.

He soon fell back into his patterns

And watched as his ego consumed him.

He began to tell himself that he had done it all.

He alone had risen from the shadows and built himself into something else.

He alone had built the courage and the strength within himself.

He alone had done it all.

As he repeated this to himself, he turned around briefly,

Looking at the girl who had given him so much of her time and energy one last time

Leaving her behind, when she needed him the most.

Closing the door.

And locking it.

I am so sorry for so many reasons. I wish a million times over I could go back and be the person you needed then. There will never be a day when I don’t think of you fondly and know that the only reason I was able to leave that space was because of you.

Moving Forward

Fuck. I don’t even want to write anymore after that last section. I miss so many things about her and selfishly wish I could talk to her just one more time. Is it wrong to still feel this way? Am I weak for still feeling this way about someone I willingly chose to hurt so much?

Our relationship came to an end in October of 2018, and the process of moving on quickly began. I still remember the very next week: I had my first upper-division math class, combinatorics, where I met the one other pretty girl in the math department and immediately started talking to her. This period of my life can best be described as Unhinged: The Latest Acts of Desperation.

My first goal was to prove to myself, the world, and most importantly, Ahana (I know, shoot me), that I was capable of moving on to a better situation faster than she could. Maybe at the time, I wasn’t even capable of understanding how much she had poured into me, or how, no matter how beautiful or desirable anyone else was, they could never replace her. She was the first person to believe in me at a time no one else did. By the time our relationship had ended, I was a very different person, and for someone to like me then would have required far less of a leap of faith than the one she took.

I went to the gym every day, downloaded every dating app, and went to every party I could find. I visited expensive barbers, got a nose piercing, and dragged my friend PK everywhere to take pictures of me for Instagram. I searched endlessly for a momentary pause to the noise in my mind — a silence I hadn’t experienced since things ended with her.

I thought that if I had my “glow-up,” improving every external aspect of myself from my physical appearance and financial status to my intelligence and daily habits, I could replace the feeling of loss and transition I was experiencing. Through this transformation, I could prove to her that she had missed out on the biggest opportunity of her life. After all, who was better than I? I was self-proclaimed intelligent, strong, sexy, and rich. No other man could possibly best me. You can already guess how this endeavor turned out.

The fragile masculine ego can play some strong tricks on an impressionable mind. I needed to diminish the extraordinary men around me, as though it were the only way I could affirm my own worth. I once argued with my best friend for hours about the fact that mathematics was more challenging than philosophy, making me, obviously, the more intelligent one. I’m sorry, Mylon.

I knew that as long as I could sustain this false image of perfection, I didn’t have to confront the reality that I am not special. If I acknowledged this, it would have become clear that my inflated sense of self existed only because Ahana had allowed it. She created the space and foundation for me to feel special, to feel good enough, to feel worthy of greatness. None of this was intrinsic to me. If I acknowledged this, I would know that Ahana would move on to make someone else feel this way — this time, someone who actually treated her right.

This caused too much pain and required a journey of self-discovery I was not ready for, so I did the only other thing I could think of: endlessly trying to fit the women I haphazardly started dating into the space she once filled. They would solve the problem for me. Who wants responsibility for their own well-being?

I looked for someone who loved like her, thought like her, cared like her, looked like her. But no one could entirely replace her memory. I searched for quite some time before realizing it was all for nothing. I was so angry that I couldn’t move on easily. Some light internet sleuthing showed me that she had started dating another guy a long time ago. Quite handsome, he was. I gave up trying around the middle of 2021 when I realized my efforts were taking me nowhere, only leaving me dejected. I couldn’t keep her off my mind, and my embarrassment kept me from sharing my feelings with those around me. And so, into the world I went, packing my bags and moving to Washington, D.C., sending her one last email before I left.

Left on read, obviously.

The New Concept

These last three years have taken me across the world as I’ve thrown myself into the field of educational policy — from conferences in the Swiss Alps to working with indigenous communities in India, observing early childhood education in Puerto Rico, and finally spending time learning from local villages in Japan. And still, the memory of her hasn’t faded. I thought by now it would have evaporated long ago. How many more flights do I need? The peace I’m searching for no longer feels worth the jet lag.

While my memories of her haven’t subsided, I finally feel a sense of lightness, after many years, when I think of dating again. I’m ready to put myself out there, slowly and cautiously, letting the world guide who I meet. But when I meet new people, I sometimes feel as though I’m only presenting a half-truth, an edited version, hiding the stories of my past that shaped who I am today. The mistakes don’t fit neatly into the narrative I want others know. They are interested in the bright-eyed person they see now, unaware of the sacrifices and the support of those who helped forge this transformation. I understand now that the butterfly cannot truly be loved without extending acceptance to the caterpillar it once was; for one cannot exist without the other. In accepting this, I realize that while Ahana and I will never reconnect, I don’t want to move on from her memory the way I was trying to before.

I find that the flaw in the idea of moving on starts at its etymology. When we separate the words move and on, their implication becomes clear: a person can leave each phase of life behind as they cross into the next, as though parts of ourselves are mere temporary outfits to be discarded with ease. This seemingly appears to be true because the past is not materially present, but it conceals the larger truth, that each one of our decisions is irrevocably etched in our history and, by extension, into the collective history we all share. Every choice we make sends out its own small wave, imperceptibly reshaping the lives of others, even those untouched by our physical presence. In this sense, the past is not a separate thing left behind; it follows us, inhabiting our being. We cannot sever ourselves from our past selves as though they are mere fragments.

I see the past as a sort of tail, an invisible body part, following us into every present moment, shaping how we interpret, react to, and absorb each experience. To truly understand another person, we must understand their metaphoric tail — the sequence of choices, interactions, and entanglements that brought them here. To me, this is the crux of the problem with “moving on”: it asks us to sever ourselves from the narrative of our lives, as though they are disconnected and can be dismissed with each passing chapter.

Beyond the failure of the term itself, the following three core components of “moving on” present their own shortcomings:

1. Detaching

2. Diminishing

3. Replacing

I find each concept to be innately flawed, rendering them unachievable in principle. In the sections that follow, I’ll explore each of these concepts in turn, demonstrating how, rather than honoring the memory of a past love, they tarnish and dismiss it.

I. Detaching

The first component of my understanding of moving on is to gradually think of the other person less and less as time progresses. This conception of moving on frames thoughts of the person in an antagonistic light. I find this view problematic, as the frequency with which we’re reminded of someone often reflects how deeply connected we were to them at the time. Thoughts of a person that arise through sounds, sights, and smells cannot, in essence, be a sign of failing to move on. Otherwise, it implies that those who never truly connected are, paradoxically, the most successful in moving on.

To this day, every time I want to show my affection deeply, I make a ridiculous face, scrunching my eyes and nose, squeezing the person’s cheeks as though they were Play-Doh. This gesture, something Ahana and I used to share, often comes involuntarily. Regardless of how present I am with the person in front of me, my first experiences with love were built through her, and traces of those moments will always underlie my expressions of love.

I find that even with my partners, it can sometimes be challenging to accept that they have loved other people before me. In exploring this feeling, I think we can understand why detachment is something expected from our partners when we transition from one relationship to the next. The sense of being someone’s only love creates an intoxicating illusion of specialness. To accept that someone has loved and been loved by others can break this illusion and make one feel like just another person in a long chain who will come and go in their life. While this is a hard pill to swallow, it is the truth.

To act as if the person in front of me is the only person I have ever loved, or even loved the most, requires a level of detachment from my past that severs the connection between who I was and who I am now.

Especially when it comes to Ahana and a few other special people in my life, I feel so deeply intertwined with them that it becomes difficult to see where one person ends and another begins. Their ideas, mannerisms, and values have become so entrenched in my own that there is no clear Goutham without acknowledging every one of them. And so, in moments when I’m asked if the love I feel for my current partner is the most profound I have ever felt, I wish I could wholeheartedly say, “undoubtedly, yes.” But that would be a lie.

Still, I strongly believe this doesn’t diminish the depth of love in the present. It simply acknowledges that feelings manifest differently throughout life, and that there’s no need to treat love as a scarce resource. The fact that someone has loved deeply in the past doesn’t cheapen the love they feel now.

I understand now that as long as I continue to resist the fact that I haven’t detached from my love for Ahana, I will always be rejecting a part of who I am. Ahana is an integral part of me, as are others who mean similarly: Mylon, Dan, Sanjiv, Ellis, and Arden. The list goes on, but it most certainly includes Ahana. I cannot, and will not, ever forget her memory. And that is my truth.

II. Diminish

The second aspect of moving on is to rationalize why the relationship ended and to find justification for why it began in the first place. In this process, I often notice one of two tendencies. The first is to reduce the worth of the other person, villainizing them to make sense of the relationship’s end. Instead of acknowledging the good traits that person may have shown, the focus shifts heavily to their biggest flaws, which are then used to diminish their value. The second is to diminish one’s own worth, coming up with countless reasons for staying in a relationship that may not have been ideal. This self-blame often attributes past decisions to naivety, childishness, an inability to set boundaries, or simply ignorance. To accept that the version of oneself back then may have genuinely known what was best at that time — but that hindsight changes perspective — would mean admitting we aren’t always fully in control of what happens. But this doesn’t mean it’s due to a deficiency in us.

For me, I initially tried to diminish the memory of Ahana by listing a million reasons why it wouldn’t have worked if we’d stayed together.

It would have been complicated with my parents.

It was too difficult doing long distance with her.

She made me afraid of the world.

I felt so restricted.

She always wanted to spend time with me.

It would be so much easier to be with someone else.

And on,

and on,

and on.

Each of these was just an attempt to intellectualize the fact that I was afraid and uncertain of what my future held. By diminishing her memory, I was trying to convince myself that whatever came next had to be better than the life I had with her. But certainty will never come; nothing in life is certain. It’s still unclear whether I’ll ever be with another person who fits all the stringent requirements I once told myself were essential in a partner.

When this approach wasn’t enough, I turned to diminishing my own worth. As I mentioned earlier, my idea of a post-breakup “glow-up” was a reductive view of my identity, objectifying my very being. I saw myself as nothing more than someone who should be attractive, wealthy, or even capable of defending myself in trivial situations. I reduced all the beautiful, nuanced facets of myself to fit a shallow standard — a way to feel superior in comparison. In trying to make her regret our relationship’s end, I reduced myself to nothing more than a character in a video game — an aesthetic to be admired or consumed.

If I had truly been acting from a place of love and appreciation for the time we shared, why would I spend so much energy on actions meant to evoke regret? In this process, everyone who became part of my life was turned into a pawn in a game they never knew they were part of. Even if I’d found another relationship through this method, the connection would always have been rooted in avoidance and rejection.

As I move forward, I no longer want to minimize myself or my memories of her just to feel better about my current situation. She was absolutely phenomenal, and while the version of me back then tried his best, I now know I could have done more. Whether or not I meet someone else, I will always cherish that memory for what it was. I don’t need to tarnish what once was to create something new today.

III. Replace

The third, and perhaps most important, aspect of moving on is replacement. Moving on often implies replacing the feelings once felt for someone we loved. This replacement can come through new hobbies, a career, friends, or, most commonly, a new romantic relationship — in essence, finding something or someone to fill the space left by a person’s absence and ease the pain of loss and transition.

This notion of moving on assumes that feelings can be detached from the person they’re tied to, making them easily transferable or replaceable. But I believe this view is fundamentally flawed. Emotions are not isolated; they’re intricately bound to the environment and the person that brings them forth. Every love, every connection, carries within an irreplaceable uniqueness. To illustrate this, I think of each feeling as part of a “person-environment-feeling” triad, in which each element is essential, linking every emotion to the distinct context it arose from.

Metaphorically, love feels to me like opening a space within myself and allowing a person, place, or experience to reside there. Once this space is created, that person has the profound ability to shape my temperament, identity, thoughts, and even my traits, both positively and negatively. When I experience a loss — whether through heartbreak, death, or another kind of transition — a void is left where that person once was, filled only by memories and traces of their presence.

These voids are so distinctly shaped that no one else can fill them in exactly the same way. I can try to cover up these spaces with other people or distractions, but the emptiness remains tenderly beneath, untouched. Any love or relationship created solely to replace another will always carry the awareness of the void it’s meant to conceal.

As we move through life, and as our capacity to hold space for people either expands or contracts, it’s not that these voids disappear; rather, they begin to feel comparatively smaller within the greater space we’re able to create. In this framework, the truest form of love does not reject or attempt to erase these spaces but instead acknowledges and accepts them with compassion, without jealousy or judgment. True love creates room to embrace the present while gently grieving what’s been lost.

This awareness of past love and loss does not detract from what we are able to give in the present; if anything, it adds depth to it. It is a love that exists with the knowledge that it, too, may one day end. To love in full awareness of this possibility is where true depth is found.

Understanding this “person-environment-feeling” connection helps me see that the feelings I had for Ahana are, by their very nature, irreplaceable. Trying to substitute them only distances me from acceptance. The scars left by her absence, are not signs of weakness, but proof of vulnerability.

A New Conception: Continuing With

When traced to its etymological roots and its core examined closely, the conventional notion of ‘moving on’ seems to call for the suppression or dulling of feelings rather than their honest acceptance. So what can we call this process instead?

In opposition to ‘moving on,’ a new term should recognize that we cannot fully separate our present selves from our past, nor sever the lasting connection between past choices and their influence on both the present and future. Rather than move, I suggest the term continue. To continue, rather than to move on, allows us to accept that even though we may no longer be physically with a person, the traces they left will always remain within us. We are not stepping into a wholly different state; instead, we are carrying forward with their memory as a part of our ongoing journey.

Focusing on the second half of the phrase, the word on implies a clean break, a stark division between past relationships and our future connections with others. It separates “I” from “you,” as if it were possible to completely distance myself from their influence. Instead, I propose the word with, which carries a sense of togetherness and continuity. This notion of continuing with acknowledges that, no matter how I might feel toward someone today, we were once intertwined in ways that resist separation. There is no true Goutham without Ahana, making “moving on” not only impossible but an attempt at erasure. I can, however, continue with her memory.

For years I found so much resistance to say that I’ve “moved on” from Ahana, because I knew deep down that I hadn’t. But when I consider the idea of continuing with the memories and impressions she left, I feel a quiet peace. I no longer need to dwell on the fact that it has been six years, nor do I need to force myself to detach from her memory. Her impact is etched deeply in my life, and that is something I am thankful to carry forward. I do not need to deny it.

Continuing with isn’t just about honoring the past; it also opens space for presence in the here and now. It allows us to approach new connections with authenticity and respect, knowing that everyone carries their own invisible ‘tail’ of experiences, pains, and hidden suffering. Rather than needing to pretend to be whole, love can be about embracing these histories as much as creating something new.

I hope this piece brings a little peace to anyone who feels like they should have moved on a long time ago, yet find themselves still thinking about the other person. You are not alone. It is okay. It’s okay to carry them with you, even if they’re no longer physically present in your life.

It is okay to continue with.

Love,

Goutham

Man’s Head In Woman’s Hair | Edvard Munch | 1896