Mom’s Spaghetti

The Clown, the Common Ground, and the Cold Truth

It’s a known fact in the dating game: as a woman, you’re taught to be desirable, but never too available. If a man shows interest, you’re expected to play it cool, date other people, and subtly prove your worth through scarcity. Don’t text first. Don’t say too much. Don’t seem too interested. It’s a performance, really - one where you’re supposed to win affection by staying just out of reach. 

But what no one tells you is how easily you can become a prop in someone else’s love story. I know this because I’ve been that prop more times than I care to count.

Maybe it’s because I’m quiet. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been bullied and carry that invisible weight - the kind of people sense and decide means “easy target.” Whatever the reason, I’ve been the placeholder, the decoy, the “common ground” two people flirt over until they find their rhythm. I’ve been the joke—the background character. The strange, lonely girl people pretend to know so they can say something witty to someone else. 

It’s a strange kind of pain - to be watched, discussed, and dismissed by people you barely know. To be the object of someone’s amusement without even knowing the punchline. And when it happens over and over, you start to shrink. You begin to believe that silence is safer. Being quiet is the best way to avoid becoming entertainment again. 

So I learned to keep to myself. To speak only when spoken to. And when faced with cruelty. One.. two… three… They won’t be here forever. This moment will pass. 

I’m 31 years old. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’m not here to give relationship advice - I’m not qualified. But what I am qualified to say is this:

If someone is playing games with your heart, if they treat your feelings like they’re disposable, if they laugh behind your back while pretending to care, walk away. Not because you’re weak. But because staying turns you into the clown. And nothing is lonelier than realizing you’re the only one taking the joke seriously. 

People protect their own. So if someone’s using you to entertain their circle, to test their partner’s jealousy, to feel better about themselves, you won’t get justice from them. You won’t get closure. You’ll only get hollow apologies and the sting of self-betrayal. 

And no, this isn’t some bitter rant about love or loneliness. It’s just me saying the thing out loud so no one else can weaponize it against me. 

Yes, I’ve been invisible.

Yes, I’ve been the punchline.

Yes, I’ve been walked over, misunderstood, and forgotten.

But I’m still here. 

Still learning. 

Still choosing not to become bitter. 

Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: no one is going to protect you the way you can. And in a world that finds joy in breaking people down, protecting your peace is the most powerful love story you’ll ever write. 

At some point, you realize the greatest act of self-love is choosing peace over participation. Walking away from the noise, the petty games, the people who drop your name into conversations to get a reaction - it’s not weakness. It’s wisdom. You learn that not every battle is yours to fight, especially when your name is being used like bait in someone else’s performance. Let them talk. Let them seek attention by borrowing your image, your story, your silence. Because you know who you are. And that quiet knowing is more potent than any spotlight they try to steal. 

There is something beautifully transformative about choosing not to engage. The moment you step away from the drama - from the people who treat your presence as entertainment, your pain as a punchline - you create space for something real to enter your life. That space became sacred. It’s the doorway through which better things can finally find you: real friends, real love, real opportunities, real peace. The Universe doesn’t waste goodness on people who stay trapped in cycles they’ve outgrown. But the moment you walk, you shift your energy—and the Universe responds to that courage with blessings. 

Let them gossip. Let them wonder. Let them spin their narratives while you build your own life—one rooted in truth, in depth, in alignment. The people who deserve to be in your orbit won’t need to tear you down to feel important. They won’t use your name to impress someone else. They’ll see your worth without needing a backstory. And you’ll recognize them not by how loud they are, but by how calm you feel around them.

So keep walking. Let go of what doesn't grow you. Release the need to explain or defend yourself to people committed to misunderstanding you. Your silence is not weakness—it’s protection. Your absence is not retreat—it’s redirection. And what’s meant for you will never arrive through manipulation or cruelty; it will come gently, clearly, and with no games attached.

One day, you’ll look back and thank yourself for not responding, not chasing, not stooping. You’ll smile at the peace you chose, the dignity you kept, and the love that found you because you finally made room for it. That’s the magic of walking away: it doesn’t end your story—it begins a better one. And the Universe, always watching, always listening, will reward the brave.