Sometimes the ego doesn't scream: it whispers. And one, without realizing it, believes him.
This story marked my sentimental life and began one afternoon in 1987, when at 20 years of age I still thought that loving was a kind of territory where you had to demonstrate strength, reason and control. I was in a relationship that, seen from a distance, had more light than shadow. But my ego – that old impostor – insisted on convincing me that to give in was to lose, that to apologize was to humiliate oneself and that to show vulnerability was to open a crack through which abandonment or mockery could enter.
I remember the exact argument that changed everything. It was for something minimal, almost ridiculous: a comment she made about a decision of mine. It wasn't an attack, it wasn't a judgment, it was an observation. But I, in my arrogance, took it as a personal offense. I responded coldly, then with irony, and finally with that tone that one uses when one wants to win, not to dialogue.
She was silent. And that silence was the beginning of the end.
For days I insisted that I was right. That if she felt hurt, it was her problem. That I was not going to "stoop" to ask forgiveness for something that, according to my version, I had not done wrong. My ego was satisfied, inflated, proud. But my relationship was crumbling like a building without columns.
The breakup came without shouting. Just one of his sentences, soft and devastating:
"I can't love someone who needs to be right more than to have peace."
I was left alone. And there, without an audience, without witnesses, without anyone to impress, the ego deflated like an old balloon. What remained was the truth: I had lost someone valuable by holding on to a version of myself that didn't even make me happy.
The following days were an uncomfortable mirror. I began to notice how many times in my life I had acted on that same impulse: in friendships, in jobs, even in casual conversations. Always defending an image, never defending my humanity.
It was then that I understood that the ego is not an enemy, but it is a bad advisor. And that if you don't educate them, they end up paying too high prices.
That experience became a compass for my future relationships, even for my international relations, where pride is often disguised as dignity and stubbornness as firmness. I learned that listening does not detract from my authority. That acknowledging a mistake does not make me weak. That empathy opens more doors than any brilliant argument. And that the real strength is in knowing when to let your guard down without losing the essence.
Today, when I look back, I don't feel ashamed. I feel gratitude. That loss taught me to love better, to communicate more clearly, and to negotiate – in life and in the world – from a more human and less reactive place.
Because in the end, what destroys is not the ego itself, but the inability to recognize when it is speaking for us.
And now I know: when the ego is silent, love – and life – are better heard.
Note: I used the DeepL Translate translator.
The photos are my property.
