He looked like the kind of man you'd want to bring home to your mother.
But in the end, I was the one left apologizing for having a heart.
🚩 Red Flags I Ignored
He humiliated me in front of others—then wrapped his arms around me like a savior.
We were bowling. I was awful at it. Instead of encouraging me, he mocked me until I didn’t want to play anymore. Then—like a switch—he wrapped his arms around me, soft and smiling.
That wasn’t comfort. That was manipulation with a charming face.He made me feel like I belonged—only to tell me I never would.
He showed me around the Zoroastrian temple. I was glowing. It felt like home.
Then he told me I’d never be “Zoroastrian enough” to date—because I wasn’t born into it.
He opened the door and slammed it shut, while smiling.He gave me warmth in public, and silence in private.
Around mutual friends and at temple, he was thoughtful and affectionate. In private, he went completely cold.
That wasn’t emotional availability. That was curation.He told me he unfollowed me—but kept pulling me in face to face.
He admitted to unfollowing me online—yet continued leading me on in person That was control, not confusion.He gave me deep conversations—but only when others were watching.
I got the best of him when there were witnesses. Alone? I barely existed.
That wasn’t connection. That was performance.He made it clear he wanted sex—but nothing else.
When we finally spent time together after my shift, the truth surfaced: he didn’t want me—he wanted what he could get from me.
And when I said no, he made me feel like I was cruel for having a boundary.He told me I could never be a real option because of my background.
My desire to convert wasn’t enough. My reverence for the faith didn’t matter.
My blood wasn’t good enough.
He dressed exclusion in culture—and expected me to thank him for it.He had a spotless reputation—and an ugly private truth.
In the community, he was kind, generous, spiritual.
But behind the scenes, he was emotionally evasive, controlling, and inconsistent.
Not all harm shouts. Some of it whispers in perfectly pronounced prayers.He made me feel like I had to apologize for protecting myself.
When I refused to sleep with him, he pulled away. He acted cold.
And instead of holding my boundary—I held his guilt.
I apologized.
I was angry at him. But I blamed myself.
💥 The Aftermath That Hurt Most
I remember being furious.
Not just at him, but at myself—for falling for it again.
He came in looking like a good man.
Soft. Spiritual. Safe.
And yet, somehow, I was the one apologizing.
For not giving him what he wanted.
For believing that I could be enough.
For daring to exist between heritage and heart, and still hope for respect.
He made me feel like I’d broken something—just by standing up for myself.
But looking back, I realize: he never wanted a woman. He wanted submission.
And I was never going to give him that.
✨ What I Learned
When someone gives you love in public but silence in private, it’s not affection—it’s performance.
A man who makes you feel like almost enough will always keep you one step below respect.
“You’re not Zoroastrian enough” is not about faith—it’s about control, bloodline elitism, and cowardice.
Your spiritual journey is not a flirtation opportunity.
You never need to apologize for saying no.
You never need to shrink to be worthy of love.
A clean reputation means nothing if it comes at the cost of private cruelty.
I don’t need to be born into Zoroastrianism to belong to it. I carry it in my ancestry, in my intuition, in my fire.
📝 Final Reflection
He said I wasn’t Zoroastrian enough to date—but I was Zoroastrian enough to be watched, teased, touched, and left behind.
He wrapped his rejection in ritual. In community. In softness.
And that’s what made it so insidious.But I see it clearly now.
I am an Iranian woman.
And that means, before Islam, before colonization, before guilt—my ancestors were Zoroastrian.I didn’t step into that temple as an outsider.
I stepped into it as someone returning.I don’t need his approval to belong.
I don’t need his attention to be radiant.He was never holy enough to hold me.
💌 Postscript (Because I Deserve a Laugh)
You know what the beautiful thing is?
I finally see him for what he is. No more Rose colored glasses. He is ugly.
And I have the picture.
And my friends and I laugh—not out of cruelty, but out of healing.
Because the same man who once made me feel like I wasn’t good enough?
Is now irrelevant. Ordinary. Small.
The longer you’re in Canada, the more you see trash like treasure.
But healing sharpens your vision.
And baby—I see clearly now.
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