Weeping On The Toilet Again…

Today, I ended up weeping on the toilet again. It happens from time to time — when memories of my childhood creep in, today it was the loss of my boyfriend. I was 16 when I learned that love doesn’t last forever.

His name was Christopher, and he was my high school sweetheart — the first boy who held my hand like it meant something. We were just kids, but it felt like more than that, because first love always does. It’s the kind of love that makes you believe in forever.

But forever isn’t real.

He was pushed from a building by a kid on drugs. I don’t even remember who told me or what they said. I only remember the fall — the way the words “he fell” sank into my mind like a stone dropped into water, rippling out in slow, sick waves.

Chris didn’t die right away. That’s the thing no one tells you about real-life tragedy — death doesn’t always come like a thief in the night. Sometimes, it lingers. It stays. I watched him slip away, piece by piece, from a traumatic brain injury — his body still here, his soul somewhere far away.

I remember the quiet hum of machines, the way the light caught in the sterile corners of the ICU. I swear I saw sparkles in the room, like something bigger than all of us had settled there for a moment, waiting.

And this is why, every morning, I go to McDonald’s for coffee. The Ronald McDonald House covered his month-long ICU bill, the one his mother couldn’t afford. It’s strange, the places you find small mercies. Some debts you pay with gratitude for the rest of your life.

That image stayed with me. His face, his breath slowing. I didn’t know hearts could break that young, but mine did, and it never healed quite right.

Love, they said, would find me again. People threw platitudes at me like handfuls of dirt on a coffin: “You’ll move on.” “You’re still so young.” “Time heals.”

But time didn’t heal anything. Time just taught me to live around the ache.

What haunted me most wasn’t his death. It was the fragility of it all — how something as big as love, as important as us, could end because of one cruel, random moment.

Love was fleeting. I saw it, lived it, held it in my hands and felt it slip through my fingers. And no one — no one — could tell me why.

So I became obsessed. Not with grief, but with the nature of love itself. How could something so powerful be so fragile? Could it be anchored, made unshakable? Could love be rewired into something lasting — something that couldn’t be taken away?

While others tried to distract themselves with normal teenage things, I disappeared into books and ideas that no one else seemed to care about — I studied the mind because I believed the mind held the answer.

If the heart was too fragile, then the mind could protect it.
If love could end, then maybe I could learn to anchor it — deeper than emotion, deeper than memory — into the very fabric of someone’s being.

It wasn’t control I wanted. It was forever.

People call me a hypnotist now. They come to me for all kinds of reasons — pleasure, freedom, escape — but the truth is, I’m still searching for the same thing I was at 16: how to make love last.

Hypnosis taught me that the mind can be shaped, rewired, and anchored. It can be guided into trust, into desire, into connection so deep it feels infinite.

It feels like love.

But here’s the paradox: I’ve spent my life mastering the art of anchoring love, and yet I know — deep down — that love is fleeting. It always has been. It’s not meant to stay.

And that’s where my journey becomes its own kind of romance. I’ve turned my wound into my work, my longing into a purpose. I help people hold onto the things that slip away too easily: trust, passion, intimacy.

• For the man who’s been betrayed, I show him how to trust again.
• For the couple who feels the spark has died, I teach them how to anchor desire until it burns brighter than ever before.
• And for those who crave connection — who are afraid of the emptiness — I guide them into the depths of themselves, where love can be felt in ways they never thought possible.

I give them the illusion of forever.

Chris is still with me. He’s in every session I lead, every mind I guide. When I teach someone to surrender to love, I think of him.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just chasing ghosts — if my desire to anchor love in others is really just my way of keeping him alive. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t hold onto us. But maybe I can teach others how to hold on longer, how to make love feel like it will never leave.

That’s what makes me who I am. I’m not just a hypnotist. I’m a woman who knows what it means to lose something that mattered more than anything else.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

Love is fleeting. It’s fragile and chaotic and unfair. And yet, we chase it anyway. We hold onto it because even if it’s fleeting, it’s worth everything.

My work is a rebellion against the impermanence of it all. When I guide someone deeper, when I help them anchor love, I’m not pretending the world is fair. I’m not denying that love can end. I’m just proving that for a little while, it doesn’t have to.

We can make love feel unshakable. We can shape it into something that feels eternal.

And maybe that’s enough.

“Close your eyes,” I tell them softly. “Let go of what you’re holding onto. Let me guide you into something deeper.”

For them, it’s an experience. For me, it’s the answer I’ve been chasing since I was 16.

Love may not last forever, but for a little while, it can feel like it does. And maybe — just maybe — that’s what forever really means.