I hadnt heard of the chair theory while I was with him. Back then, all I knew was a persistent tirednessnot physical, but emotional. Every morning felt like a new test; as though I had to earn my place each day. Love always seemed conditional, something I needed to prove.
That feeling had lingered since the beginning. When we first dated, I was the one rearranging my diary, canceling nights out with friends, switching work shifts, dashing from one corner of London to another, just for him. He always had something far more importantfootball matches, mates, work, or just a bit of downtime. And when we actually did see each other, hed sit glued to his phone: texting, scrolling through videos. Id talk, and hed mumble, Yeah, alright, without ever looking up.
When we moved in together, I hoped sharing a home would bring us closer. It turned out to be the opposite. Id get up early, head to work, then rush home to cook, wash clothes, and tidy up. Hed stroll in, ask whats for dinner, then disappear into a room to rest. Whenever I needed a hand, hed claim he was worn out and say, Later. The later almost never happened.
One night stands out. I was ill, shivering with a fever, and asked him to make me some soup. He looked at me and said, Cant you just order something? So I dragged myself to the kitchen, trembling, made my own soup, and wept while stirring the pot. For the first time, I felt like a guest in my own home.
It was much the same with his family. At gatherings in Manchester, Id bring food, help serve, wash up. Nobody asked how I was, if I needed anything. And he never said, Sit with me, or Come stay here. I was always busy, always moving, invisible to them all. One of his aunts said once, Isnt it lovely, shes so helpful. Everyone laughed. I smiled, but inside felt completely used.
Birthdays hurt the most. On my birthday, hed always say, Well celebrate another time. That other time rarely arrived. But if it was one of his mates birthdays, hed find time, money, and energy. I faded into the background, carrying presents, snapping photos, applauding for others.
The clearest memory I have is a dinner out with his friends. We walked in, he took a seat at the big table and started chatting and laughing. I ended up off to the side, perched on a solitary chair by the wall. No one included me in the conversation. I watched plates go around, listened to laughter and inside jokes, and felt like I was sitting at a table where my presence didnt matter.
When we got home, I told him, crying, that I felt invisible. He said, Youre overreacting. You always make a fuss. Thats when I realisedeven my pain had no room.
After our breakup, a friend of mine told me about the chair theory. She said something that stuck with me: When someone loves you, they dont make you wait. They make space for you, without you asking.
I started replaying the relationship in my mind, like a film. All the times Id hoped for attention. All the times Id waited for a text, or bitten my tongue just to keep things comfortable.
I realised Id been standing for yearsbalancing emotionally, trying not to get in the way, hoping Id be enough.
And it wasnt just him. It was there in friendships, where Id always listen but never be heard. With relatives who only called when they needed something. With jobs where I gave more than I got.
Im still on my own today. But I dont feel small anymore.
Now, when I walk into a room, I look around. If theres no space for me, I leave. If I have to beg for attention, I step back. If Im made to feel uncomfortable for just being there, I dont stay.
Because Ive learned something late, but its finally sunk in:
I wasnt born to beg for a chair.
I deserve a table where people want me there.
And that, I think, is the lesson I needed most.
