Relationship is an endless reincarnation

Imagine being informed that the person you care deeply for is dating someone else. You spend an entire week processing the news, trying to make sense of it all. On Sunday morning, you wake up and decide to ground yourself with a yoga practice.

In downward-facing dog, your thoughts wander, but the teacher’s voice pulls you back. “Pay attention. THIS IS LIFE.” Your chest touches the ground — solid, real. By the end of savasana, you feel tears well up. It’s the first time you’ve been completely honest with yourself, acknowledging the desire that’s been buried inside. The weight of suffering lifts, and you’re ready to carry your desire into a new chapter of life. You finish writing the last paragraph of your story from your perspective, eager to place that final period.

But as soon as you return home, a new email hits your inbox — like an atomic bomb.

“Sorry for not responding. I wanted you to be angry with me so you could move on. But I realize now that’s not the way to handle it. How about I send you one last, long email to freak you out? Also, let me know if there’s anything you need for your ending, so you can begin your next life.”

Wait, what? My ending? My next life? Am I in the last stage of cancer? Has someone already arranged my funeral? The priest reads my eulogy, and flowers are placed at my grave — “Rest in peace,” they say. wtf

Life feels so absurd, that I almost choke on my laughter after the tears dry up. It’s like the universe is playing a joke, dragging me back to the beginning for the 500th — no, the 1000th — time, just when I’m about to start my “next chapter.”

You know what? If the universe pulls you back five times, you still find the will to push forward. You might cry, get angry, and curse the universe, but you fight against it. However, by the 500th time, something changes. You begin to see relationships as an endless cycle, a kind of reincarnation. Life itself starts to feel like a sitcom. And if the universe insists on keeping you in this loop, you might as well find a bench, sit down, and get more comfortable.

The silver lining is that after being dragged back so many times, you’re no longer driven by extreme emotions. Instead of running, you settle in, observe, and start asking better questions. When you’ve been through something 500 times, patterns start to emerge — the central limit theorem kicks in. You notice patterns in yourself, in others, and in relationships.

Sure, I still cry, I still feel fear, pain, and all those so-called negative emotions. But now, my mind functions more rationally, even creatively. I feel like a general surveying the battlefield, mapping out the complex terrain of emotions, people, and connections.

What assumptions did I make that turned out to be wrong? What impressions of others have been confirmed or disproven? How has this relationship evolved over time? How have I evolved? What makes sense, and what doesn’t?

I feel like a curious scientist, dissecting a complex problem that spans philosophy, psychology, math, behavioral science, and scientific methodology. New insights and questions flow through me. How has this relationship, despite its dysfunctional setup, remained not just low toxicity but sometimes even playful? What is my mental model of a “good relationship,” do they even hold true? How is it that I’ve grown indifferent to almost all external circumstances, yet remain focused?

And as I piece together another fragment of the puzzle, I finally fall asleep.