The Quiet Pain of Being Second Best: What It Feels Like When You’re Always an Option

Lately, I’ve been going through something that, the more I think about it, the more utterly absurd and maddening it feels. The irony of my current situation is a cruel, persistent joke. On the surface, everything in my professional and material life seems to be soaring. I’ve secured a vast and loyal readership numbering in the millions. I recently finalized funding for two major, career-defining projects. I live in one of the most incredible cities in the world, surrounded by stunning, accomplished people and endless, tangible opportunity.

Everything is, by all external metrics, going spectacularly well—except for the one thing that truly matters, the emotional core that dictates the color and texture of my entire existence: her.

There’s nothing in the human experience that can either fuel you or drain you with the devastating efficiency of love. When things are going right, the feeling is one of being unstoppable, intensely alive, like you’re floating through life on a current of purpose and burning passion. But when it’s going wrong—when that core connection is fractured—everything instantly feels heavy, weighted down by an unbearable, invisible mass. Even the most basic, necessary tasks start to feel overwhelmingly difficult. Some mornings, just getting out of bed feels like starting a day-long, grueling climb up a sheer mountain face.

And the worst part about love is when it’s not mutual—or worse, when the intensity and commitment are not returned with the same fire. That’s when the relationship, even if technically ongoing, becomes your own private, relentless hell. Somehow, despite all my self-awareness, I’ve found myself caught in the same emotional, self-destructive loop with the same person once again. And this time, I know, with cold, terrifying certainty, that I cannot keep doing this to myself.

I. The Humiliation of Option B

Few things wound the ego and the spirit more profoundly than the slow, agonizing realization that the one person who means everything to you only sees you as an available option. The pain is immediate, deep, and deeply personal.

And yet, what cuts even deeper, what drills straight to the core of your self-worth, is realizing you’re not just an option—you’re consistently option B.

That specific kind of pain is difficult to describe adequately. It is not the clean, sharp wound of a sudden breakup; it is the slow, corrosive heartbreak of knowing your devotion is acknowledged but ranked second, third, or fourth to other priorities, other people, or other paths they might pursue.

The Ego’s Double Edge

Love is strange like that—it’s both the single biggest boost to your ego (when it’s reciprocated) and the quickest, most effective way to utterly destroy it (when it’s unrequited). It possesses the power to lift you up to feel untouchable and invincible, or to break you down until you barely recognize the person staring back from the mirror.

To truly love someone is to commit the ultimate act of vulnerability: to expose your truest, most unguarded self. You give them the version of you that no one else—not your colleagues, your readers, or your family—ever gets to see. It is vulnerability at its rawest, most terrifying peak. You hope—desperately—that they will feel the same protective instinct. That they will handle your fragile, offered heart with the utmost care.

But when you realize they don’t love you back—or at least not with the same singular, unshakeable intensity you offer them—it feels like you’ve meticulously offered yourself, a custom-crafted gift, only to be politely but firmly told that it is not needed or wanted. It’s not a gentle refusal; it is an internal catastrophe. It’s like being laid bare on an operating table and having someone drive a knife straight through your chest, precisely targeting your ability to trust and commit.

The Stigma of Unwanted Devotion

And honestly? It’s profoundly humiliating.

There’s something deeply, fundamentally embarrassing about giving the entirety of your heart, your time, and your emotional energy to someone who didn’t ask for it—or who consistently demonstrates they aren’t ready, or willing, to hold it. Even if they never actually laugh at you, the situation feels like you’re being laughed at. It feels like the universe is actively mocking your vulnerability, your sincere commitment, and your fundamental human need for reciprocal affection.

And the worst part is the internal conflict: the one person you most want to appear strong and composed in front of is the very person who sees you in your weakest, most exposed, and most desperate moment. It forces you to question everything—especially the core value you possess as a human being. You could be confident, successful, even admired by millions of strangers, but one concentrated act of romantic rejection can shake the very foundation of your belief in yourself.

II. The Disappearance of the Imagined Future

The realization that the issue isn’t a misunderstanding, but a fundamental lack of mutual desire, takes time and immense effort to absorb. Eventually, you might intellectually grasp the truth: that their inability to love you back with equal measure says far more about their own capacity or situation than it does about your intrinsic worth. But getting to that point of clear-eyed acceptance takes time, and that agonizing journey is anything but easy.

The Time Trap

The trap is often self-imposed: “I’ve spent four years trying to grow into the kind of person I thought she would want—only to realize I was becoming the right person for the wrong one.” This painful admission reflects the destructive cycle of trying to earn love rather than simply receiving it.

No matter how long you’ve chased someone, no matter what sacrifices you’ve made, or how deeply you believed in the perfect future you were building together, the heartbreaking truth is this: You crafted a rich, vibrant future in your mind that, with the clarity of rejection, no longer exists.

And now, you are left stranded, required to rebuild an entirely new path without any clear map, without knowing where that path will ultimately lead. This loss forces you to question not just the viability of the relationship, but how you interpret the world, how you define genuine love, and how you interpret reality itself.

The Loss of Color: When you are deeply in love, everything seems to make perfect sense. Life feels meaningful, purposeful, and intensely vivid. Even the hard moments feel purposeful and worth the struggle. But once love fades or fails to ignite as hoped, the world starts to lose its color, its vibrancy seems muted. Your fundamental sense of purpose blurs, leaving a psychological vacuum where confidence once lived.

III. The Ignite: Anger and Self-Reclamation

The final, redemptive truth about heartbreak is that it doesn’t just crush you; it also ignites something essential within. And that something is often the protective mechanism of anger.

The Right to Be Angry

Is it morally wrong to feel angry at the person who caused you this profound emotional injury? Maybe. Maybe not. But honestly, it is absolutely okay to feel it. You don’t need to force yourself to pretend you’re fine. You don’t need to immediately rationalize their behavior, excuse their detachment, or brush your authentic emotions aside for the sake of maturity. If you’re angry, allow yourself to be angry.

Anger, properly channeled, is not destructive; it is a powerful catalyst that drives change. Just ensure that this raw energy does not turn inward into self-blame or outward into a petty desire for retribution.

The Best Revenge is Moving On: The only healthy, effective, and enduring “revenge” is the one you exact on your own life: building a life so full, so beautiful, so undeniably yours, and so utterly successful that they cannot help but notice what they walked away from—not because you want them back, but because you have honored your own worth.

The Choice to Rise

This kind of profound heartbreak also forces you to slow down—to pause the frantic chase, regroup your scattered energy, and fiercely re-center your life around yourself. Don’t rush to distract yourself. Distraction is a temporary sedative, not genuine healing.

Take your time. Feel the pain. Sit with the grief, the humiliation, and the anger. Then, look for the lessons embedded in the pain. Let it teach you what you need to know—about yourself, about the core qualities you truly want in a partner, and about the fundamental respect and devotion you deserve.

You won’t get over this overnight. But you will move forward. And when you emerge from the emotional wreckage, you will come out stronger, more resilient, and far clearer about your non-negotiable standards.

Never let yourself become someone’s backup plan. Never allow yourself to be a second choice. Honor yourself by summoning the courage to walk away from anything that doesn’t genuinely reflect your worth—even if a stubborn part of your heart still wants desperately to stay.

You can drown in this heartbreak for years, letting the weight of unreturned love sink you. Or you can make the conscious choice to rise—to pour your energy into your own growth, your life, and your becoming. Keep building. Keep becoming. Because somewhere down the line, you will find someone who doesn’t just choose you—they will only want you, wholeheartedly and without reservation. And when that day comes, you will be profoundly glad you refused to settle for anything less than everything.

The Quiet Pain of Being Second Best: What It Feels Like When You’re Always an Option