Month: October 2025

A Love I Didn’t Keep

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Some loves don’t end with drama. No betrayal. No big fight. No final goodbye yelled into a rainy night. Just slow unspooling. You find yourself thinking of them less and less. The texts become fewer. Then the pauses between replies stretch longer — before being ignored even becomes a thing. And then… there’s just no feeling. The phone calls are shorter, the silences longer. There’s awkwardness. And that strange moment when you realize the laughter isn’t quite the same, and neither of you knows how to ask why.

I used to think love had to last to be real — that if the feelings faded, then maybe it wasn’t love to begin with. But life, ha! I think now, more and more, that some of the deepest loves don’t stay. They arrive to teach you something. To stretch your heart. To open a door. And then they leave.

This is about one of those loves.

We didn’t end in anger. In fact, I feel guilt sometimes — because I ended up feeling nothing. Well, not nothing exactly… maybe a kind of passive-aggressive bitterness. A resentment that came not from betrayal but from boredom. From realizing that we were growing in different directions — slowly enough for us both to notice. It became clear that he wasn’t as motivated to stop the disintegration of us, and I was a little too tired to keep denying that the shape of us had changed. And the truth? I didn’t quite feel the loss.

Still, I remember the mornings that felt sacred. The inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. The ways we tried. The moments we got it right. The warmth and joy and spark of it. The fire. The chemistry. The romance. The tenderness. The urgency. I remember all of it, and I (mostly) don’t regret it.

I think this might have been the first time I could look back at a relationship and feel that I was actually ready for a love to end. That loving someone and not wanting to keep them wasn’t a betrayal of my romantic ideals. And that I didn’t need to vilify him to make sense of the ending. I could simply say: he loved me — maybe not in the way I needed forever, but in the way he could, then. And that was how it was meant to be.

I still find myself wondering whether it’s okay to file this under loved and gladly shelved. I mean, I don’t think I get to decide the categories of love. Maybe they were set by the gods or the ancestors long ago — that not every love is meant to be permanent, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t valid. There’s comfort in that, I think.

Not every ending is a failure. Sometimes it’s just a quiet closing of a chapter.

So aside from the small-small sadness, the soft ache of parting, I carry a kind of gratitude. A softness around the memory of a love that was real, even if it didn’t last. A love that mattered — for as long as it did.

I wonder if this is how it is with some friendships too.

sigh

What I Meant to Say (Do)

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There are things I wish I’d said when it mattered. Not big, sweeping declarations. Just simple truths that I held back — out of fear, timing, pride, or that awful belief that I’d have another chance.

What I meant to say was: “I didn’t know how to love you right then, but I wanted to.” Or maybe: “You hurt me more than I admitted — but I still think of you kindly.” Or: “I’m sorry I didn’t show up when we agreed, because I feared you were more important to me than I was to you. I didn’t want to lose.”

I just wish those moments hadn’t been so full of fear. Or competition. Or pride. I wish my heart could have recognized when it was important to be transparent — to be bold. I wonder if people become wiser with age and can identify a pivotal moment that has the potential to change the shape of a relationship. And if that kind of wisdom exists, how can I tap into it faster?

Sometimes, the loss of the moment isn’t only about what I didn’t say — but what I didn’t do, because I thought I had more time. Lately, I’ve been remembering a conversation I wanted to have with my father before he died. I wanted to know more about him — how he grew up, how he lived, how he saw the world. I wanted an oral history. But I waited too long. I thought we had more time.

Or that man I loved so deeply. I wish I had pushed us to take the leap. But the moment passed. He was also gone. And there’s no going back.

But not everything I didn’t say was profound. Sometimes, I just wish I had expanded the moment a little. Said something like “Don’t go.” Or, “I hear you.” Or even, “Tell me more about that.” But the moment passed, and the pause was too long to say more. Or the person passed — and now I carry the words like little pebbles in my pocket. Not heavy enough to stop me, but impossible to ignore. And my heart keeps saying: I wish I had said it. Can I go back and say it? The regret lives at the base of my brain, and I rest my neck on it.

I suppose the lesson is that not every truth arrives on time. But how can I accept that there’s beauty or purpose in the delay? How do I make peace with the distance that silence — or death — creates? Accepting that the moment is gone doesn’t mean I don’t still wish I had said the words, or done the thing.

These days, I pray for the courage to speak when the urge is kind and clean. I pray I can recognize the moment when choosing now over maybe could change the shape of everything. I hope I’ve learned how to say the thing when it’s warm — not when it’s stale. To risk the awkward moment over the lingering ache of “too late.”

I wonder if it’s a skill I can master… this bravery to act in time.

Unsent Letters

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I’m a romantic. So yeah… I’ve written more letters than I’ve sent.

Long, spiraling ones with no punctuation. Short ones with just one sentence I couldn’t say out loud. On napkins. On the backs of receipts. In my Notes app at 2:43 AM. In my journal — which, honestly, I dread thinking about anyone reading in the future. What will my relatives make of my late-night musings? Hehehe…

These unsent letters — some start with “I miss you,” and others begin with choice expletives. A few open with “This hurt.” Some never make it past “Dear…” before my mind takes over and rewrites the page before I can finish the thought.

I usually write them when my chest feels tight with unspoken things. When I’m not sure a conversation would fix anything, but I still need to clear the static building in my heart and head. Sometimes I write them because I fear that saying something out loud would make forgiveness feel too fragile — or worse, that naming a thing would make it impossible to ignore, and then we’d have to deal with the truth. And then… the impasse.

Most of these letters stay hidden. Tucked into drawers. Folded into ziplocks like sterilized prayers. Deleted from drafts. Forgotten altogether. A few times, I’ve burned them in the kitchen sink — not out of anger, but as a kind of quiet ritual. A release.

The truth is: some letters aren’t meant to be sent. They’re meant to be written — to make space. To say what needs to be said, not to someone else, but to yourself. That’s the real magic of being a writer. Words spoken in silence have a strange kind of power. They remind me that I haven’t abandoned myself. That I can give my feelings shape without giving them away. That I can honor my voice without needing a response. That I can choose peace over performance.

And sometimes — not often, but sometimes — the letter is a rehearsal. A first draft of the thing I’ll one day have the courage to say out loud. A soft landing before the truth is spoken with full voice.

Maybe that’s what the hidden words are for. Not drama, not even clarity — just honesty. A mirror. A rescue. A reminder of what I needed to hear all along.

So yes, I’ll keep writing them. Not for closure. Not to provoke. But because even when no one else hears it, the act of writing it down means I did. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Healing is Less Ruler and More Slinky

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I used to think healing was a straight line.

I think when your heart is broken, action feels like the answer. And there was a time when I believed that if I journaled enough, prayed enough, forgave enough, read enough, I’d cross some invisible finish line and finally feel… whole. There were many nights when I’d lie awake imagining that one day I’d wake up and not flinch when certain memories tapped me on the shoulder. That I’d reach a place called healed and never have to feel the ache again — or wince at the memory that still stings.

Oh! But how life has humbled my youthful angst for perfection and destination highs. How it’s softened my obsession with tidy arcs and destination highs. I know better now. I think I have spent the last few reckoning with the great revelation of being a beautifully flawed human: healing is not a finish line. It is less ruler and more slinky.

My experience has shown me that healing circles back far more often than you’d like. It is not unusual to revisit old wounds from new angles. Like an obsessive detective in a crime procedural, you return to the scene again and again — only this time with new tools, a bit more breath in your body, and the faint hope that maybe, this time, you’ll be able to put something to rest.

I think healing is a quiet hope that we’ll survive these re-visits. At first, setbacks feel like monumental failure. I have started therapy sessions with a sigh and a frustrated, “I thought I was past this.” But these days, I’m convinced Shrek was right all along. We really are onion people, layered and tender in places we didn’t know were still sore.

To be patient with the spiral nature of healing is to celebrate the difference between surviving something… and beginning to understand it. So now, instead of panicking when I find myself back inside a familiar ache, I pause. I try — gently — to hush the self-blame and ask my inner critic, “Why is this memory asking for attention right now?” And I have to say, that alone feels like progress. Sometimes, making that small pause meaningful feels like a kind of healing.

I’ve come to understand that healing doesn’t mean the pain is gone. It means that I tend to the places that still call out when touched. I sit with the memory that hurts. I spend time reframing the story. Sometimes, I even rewrite it.

As I’ve matured, I’ve learned to humbly ask for softness around the spaces within that still echo. I’ve stopped asking for permanent freedom. Instead, I ask to return — next time — without shame.

I ask for light to meet me again at the next appointed spiral point.

Sistered

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I am often impatient with people who talk about women not supporting one another. Mostly because that hasn’t been my story. My experience has been one of unwavering support, deep love, and women showing up — over and over again.

I have been encouraged and held. Sometimes with a timely word. Sometimes with a look. Sometimes just by someone sitting beside me long enough for my breath to slow down.

There are women who have saved me without even realizing it.

My girls are my lifeline. Starting with my wombmates — these women know how to speak life into me. The love they have for me is so deep, so true, that I feel it in my bones. I must be the luckiest girl alive, because I also have sisters by choice. Some walked in and stayed. Some were only here for a short while. But I’ve come to learn that time is not a reliable judge of sisterhood.

When I say that sisterhood isn’t just about time or biology, I mean it. Because I’ve gathered great sisters along the way. And somehow, they all speak the same language. They are fluent in love and steadfastness.

They text, “Did you eat?” or “Have you slept?” and it feels like a prayer. They show up where I am, because over the phone I said “I’m fine” — and didn’t sound it. These sisters are the ones you tell to stay away, but who still find a way to be near, without making you regret it. They’re the cheeky ones who don’t need backstory (because they just get it) and insist that you give them a blow-by-blow account of things anyway — just so you can waste time together.

There’s something holy about being known by people who aren’t trying to fix you. Who let you unravel when you need to. Who allow you to sit with whatever elephant that insists on being inside a room when Tsavo is just a few hours away. Who help you tie yourself back together when you’re ready.

This isn’t just sisterhood. This is love.

And I’m so grateful for it.

Sisterhood isn’t always loud or visible. Shucks! Love isn’t always obvious. Sometimes, it’s a quiet protection of your name in rooms you haven’t entered. A shared look across the room when the men are talking nonsense. Sometimes, it’s telling the hard truth — when it’s VERY hard — because you want each other to grow.

I’ve been held by women who remind me who I am when I forget. Who laugh like medicine. Who show up with balm and jokes and “Let’s play that French song you love on repeat while we drink Jaba juice” energy.

As a love writer, I have not talked enough about how radical it is to be loved platonically, fiercely, and without transaction. How healing it is to be rooted in a community where no one’s competing, no one’s performing, and no one needs to shrink you to feel seen.

So, I am celebrating the women who mothered me, sistered me, midwifed my joy. Who have held space when I couldn’t hold myself. Who remind me — again and again — that I don’t have to do any of this alone.

I carry so much gratitude.

My sisters make the becoming bearable… and the journey joyful.