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Because love should choose you, not be convinced to stay. You can apologize if you believe you made a mistake. You can show regret if you think you played a part in what went wrong. You can let yourself be sad and let the person know you feel bad for what happened. You can express all your emotions without fear of judgment or criticism. But please, please and please never ask someone to stay once they’ve decided to leave, and never beg them to return. Trust me, I say this with confidence born from experience. Not only does it come across as desperate, but it’s also a useless act of love. It doesn’t make the argument disappear, nor does it improve the relationship. If anything, it lowers your value and deepens the imbalance between you. Not begging has nothing to do with lacking vulnerability. It’s about self-respect and about holding your head high and honoring your worth. It may seem cold or ego-driven, but in truth, it’s one of the kindest acts of love you can offer yourself. Choosing not to beg gives you peace of mind. It creates space for you to heal and become whole again. It doesn’t mean you’re “better off without them.” It simply shows that you value living in peace with yourself over forcing someone to stay. It’s an act of kindness, for both you and your former partner. Choosing not to beg doesn’t mean you hold hate or resentment. It means you care enough to let both hearts be free. You might say, “But what if they left out of anger or a bad temper?”  I understand. But even then, look from another angle. If someone truly loves you, they will find ways to stay. They will fight for the connection. They won’t take the easy way out or make impulsive choices that risk losing you. They won’t make you feel like you weigh less than a feather in their life. A quick decision to leave doesn’t make them cruel or heartless. It simply means the connection wasn’t strong enough to withstand the doubts. The weight of uncertainty became heavier than the weight of love. That’s not wrong! It’s just human. But forcing love to stay when it’s already gone only prolongs the pain. You might succeed in keeping them for a while, out of sympathy, empathy, or shared memories. But emotionally, they’ve already withdrawn. The love and respect fade, replaced by obligation. And the moment conflict arises again, they’ll run because they were never truly there anymore. It’s essential to remember: it’s not your fault they left. Everyone connects differently. We all have different levels of intimacy, different ways to communicate, to love, to handle conflict. Some people are avoidant. They run, they detach, and they keep a back door open. You can’t fix that. I share this because I learned it the hard way. I asked myself a thousand whys : Why didn’t he fight for us? Why was I the one in pain? Why couldn’t he stay? I used to think if I had begged harder, he might’ve stayed. But in the end, I realized I had only betrayed my own value. And I’m glad I learned, painfully, but truthfully. So this is my reminder to you: no matter how vulnerable or heartbroken you feel, please don’t beg someone to stay when they no longer intend to. Love deserves freedom, not force. Don’t beg someone to stay

My first day of turning 40, I woke up with a different perspective. Usually, the moment I open my eyes, my mind starts spinning, replaying what happened yesterday, what I did, what others did, what disturbed my peace. I start analyzing everything: myself, the situation, my emotions, even other people’s intentions. Then comes self-empathy, self-sympathy, and the endless questions: why, what did I do wrong, what could I have done better? Eventually, I get out of bed and forget all the lessons the universe has been trying to teach me. I’ve read about them, listened to them, even been reminded by friends about the Buddha’s teachings that the universe will keep nudging us until we finally learn what we need to. And still, I forget. I admit I haven’t paid enough attention. I’ve been too busy seeking self-sympathy, serving my own desires, and forgetting to truly understand others’ feelings that they too can feel pain, that they too want to be loved, seen, and appreciated. I forgot to be humble, authentic, and genuine. But I can’t fully blame myself. The way I’ve thought and acted came from years of enduring hardship. Years that taught me to be strong, guarded, and self-reliant just to survive in a competitive world. Those traits served me well; they made me who I am today. Yet I can also admit that this mindset has, at times, hurt the people I care about, and ultimately, myself. So now, I am humbly choosing to change. Because what I truly want is simple: to see the people around me happy. The Maybe Maybe being vulnerable isn’t that scary. Maybe being caring and attentive doesn’t make me weak. Maybe crying in front of others isn’t desperation. Maybe — just maybe — vulnerability is what we really need to live fully. Perhaps I’ve confused vulnerability with weakness, and it’s time I learn the differences. Today, I woke up with a different kind of clarity. Turning into 40, I feel optimistic, as if the universe just handed me a new lens to see through. I believe the recent events in my life happened for a reason — a necessary lesson before stepping into this new decade. What I thought I lost, I’ve actually gained tenfold in wisdom. I’ve learned to lower my expectations, to accept that things can change in a heartbeat, to appreciate others more deeply, and to never take love or time for granted. I’ve learned that the world doesn’t revolve around me and that life is about evolving with  others, not just within myself. Serving others doesn’t mean losing who I am; i t’s an act of love, humility, and grace. Maybe it’s not just about embracing happiness for myself, but also for those who make space and time for one another. Maybe it’s my time to serve because when they’re happy, I’m happy too. Looking back, 39 gave me both highs and lows, but the last half was filled with gratitude, joy, and growth. As I step into 40, I choose to live with awareness, kindness, service, selflessness, gratitude, and vulnerability. I choose to love myself — and everyone around me — because we all deserve that kind of love. I do believe, what has happened is necessary for my life lessons at 40.

It started with a casual exchange, mostly just texts. Light at first glance, until a line cut unexpectedly: "Lower your walls. I come in peace.”  Then: “You don’t want to get hurt. We know you’re tough.” Something shifted. The words didn’t just land; they unsettled. Like a mirror had been held up; not to reflect the surface, but to expose something I wasn’t prepared to look at. There’s something disarming about being observed, not in the usual way people notice your style, your tone, your rhythm, but in a way that feels like someone is reading between your expressions. Spotting your patterns. Naming what you've tried to keep in check. I wanted to brush it off. Throw some humor in, redirect the weight of it. But it stuck. Later, I sat in meditation. That conversation came back, not as words, but sensation. A vibration started in my head and pulsed through my body in waves. Four, maybe five. I’ve felt this before, but this time I truly noticed it. Let it move. It wasn’t dramatic, just… strange. Quiet. Intimate. A calm mess. Oddly enjoyable. And then, unexpectedly, two tears. Not sadness. Not even pain. Just a physical response, like something in me got nudged. The kind of nudge that catches you off guard because it finds the exact spot you thought was hidden. Because truthfully, it’s been a long time since anyone’s really looked, not at the version I present, but what sits underneath. I’m used to being sharp. Strategic. Unreadable. There’s control in that. Safety. And yeah, strength too. But being unreadable long enough? You start to feel invisible. Even to yourself. That moment of being seen, it wasn’t sweet. It was unsettling. Not harmful, just… closer than I expected. Still, something about it stayed with me. That strange tremor. That feeling. The discomfort of being understood too quickly. Maybe it wasn’t empathy. Maybe it was recognition, not from them, but from a part of me I rarely let surface. I’m not ready to call it vulnerability. I’m not aiming for softness. But I can’t ignore the shift. And maybe that’s enough for now.

I’ve always admired sensitivity. It’s one of the most beautiful qualities a person can have, rooted in humility, sympathy, compassion, and love. It’s what makes us human, after all. But I’ve come to learn that sensitivity, when projected onto others without boundaries, can become heavy, too heavy. Being sensitive doesn’t automatically mean being understanding. Not everyone navigates the world the same way. I’m different. And while I respect emotional depth and tenderness, I’ve found it draining when someone expects me to constantly adjust to their sensitivities, to read between their every unspoken line, and to always respond with perfect emotional precision. The truth is, being sensitive doesn’t automatically mean being understanding. Sometimes, it can turn into a pattern of emotional extraction, where the more you give, the more is expected. I’ve been on the receiving end of that. One minute, I’m their safe space, the next, I’m left confused, wondering what I did wrong. It's not about lack of empathy on my part, believe me, I try. I always try. But there comes a point when kindness feels like currency being spent without return. And here’s the hardest part: I didn't even realize how much it affected me until I felt disoriented. I kept responding, kept giving, because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Cutting ties is rarely my first instinct, unless someone crosses a clear line. But I’ve come to see that constantly overextending myself in response to someone else’s unregulated emotions doesn’t make me kind. It makes me depleted. I’ve learned that constantly overextending myself in response to someone else’s unregulated emotions doesn’t make me kind. It makes me depleted. Let me be clear, sensitive people can be wonderful. They can be kind to the world, to animals, to their community. But that doesn’t mean they are kind to everyone in the same way, or that their emotional energy is healthy for everyone they encounter. When their indecision starts to affect others, when plans are broken, words lose meaning, and boundaries are ignored, it’s no longer endearing. It’s unreliable. And for me, unreliability in relationships, whether platonic, romantic, or otherwise, is a dealbreaker. This experience reminded me to trust my gut. I’ve learned to ask better questions early on: Are you sharing your sensitivity with self-awareness, or are you planning to let it bleed into my life without consent? If it’s the latter, I kindly opt out. No hard feelings. You might be a great person, but not for me. Another lesson learned, and I’m walking away grateful, wiser, lighter, and a little more in tune with the kind of energy I want to invite in.

What does it mean to live an “ordinary” life? And who gets to define it? Some people are told that a typical life, working 40 to 50 hours a week, returning home, watching TV, and repeating the cycle, is something to escape from. But such judgments ignore the deeper truths behind how we each arrive at our realities. Statements that push us to strive for greatness can be motivating, yes, but they can also alienate. Not everyone has the same starting line. We live in a world of vast inequality, seven billion lives shaped by drastically different circumstances. Some are born into opportunity. Others into warzones, displacement, generational poverty, or systemic oppression. Many survive day to day with no choice but to endure. So again, what is “ordinary”? Is a refugee's story less worthy because it isn’t spotlighted on a stage? Is a single parent’s perseverance any less extraordinary than a CEO’s? I don’t believe any life is ordinary. Each of us is shaped by forces we didn’t choose, our history, environment, and the circumstances we’re born into. But within those realities, effort matters. Choice matters. Some people rise not because the path was clear, but because they kept walking anyway. Others survive unimaginable conditions through resilience alone. The fact that so many continue to breathe, to show up, to strive, that is not ordinary. That is extraordinary. Instead of asking whether your life is impressive enough, ask yourself: Am I doing the best I can with what I have? Am I showing up? Am I causing no harm? Then that is already something worth honoring. We don’t live ordinary lives. We live different lives. And difference does not mean lesser.

I wasn’t bitter, just… blank. A silence where there should’ve been memories. I used to feel confused, sometimes even numb, when I watched touching mother-daughter moments on TV. Those scenes would stir something inside me, something I couldn’t name. I'd sit there wondering: Do mothers really love and sacrifice so deeply for their children? Or are these just well-scripted fantasies? The truth is, I didn’t grow up with a reference point for what a nurturing, present mother looks like. My counselor once told me that it’s hard to feel connected to something you’ve never experienced. And that made sense. I wasn’t bitter, just… blank. A silence where there should’ve been memories. Still, questions would come. The what ifs that never seem to go away. What if my mother had stayed? What if she had loved us the way the world says mothers should? Would I be different? Would life be softer? But those questions, I’ve learned, have no finish line. They loop endlessly and drain more than they give. The past happened. And it doesn't change no matter how many times I rewind it in my head. So I’ve stopped trying to fix the past with my imagination. Instead, I choose to anchor myself in what’s real: My sisters, who’ve become more than family, but soul companions. The friends who show up when it matters. The quiet strength I’ve built brick by brick. The laughter of my dog. The ability to sit with myself and not run away. The softness I offer others, even when I wasn't taught how to receive it. I may never fully understand what it means to be mothered. And now, I also have to accept that I may never become a mother myself. When I was finally ready—when I believed I could break the cycle and offer a love I never had—I was met with a fibroid diagnosis that made the choice for me. I didn’t get the luxury of exploring fertility treatments or procedures. Financial insecurity was always hovering, and my partner at the time couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stand in this fight beside me. The solution existed, maybe. But access didn’t. And now, close to 40, the window narrows each day. I won't pretend it doesn’t hurt. Some days, the grief comes quietly and pulls my mood down like a tide. Not because I gave up, but because the choice was never really mine. I don’t want to be a single mother. Not in this chaotic dating culture where connection feels so temporary. And yet, that doesn’t mean I’m weak. It doesn’t mean I gave up. It means I chose myself, again. I am not heartless. I am not lost. I am someone who is still becoming. And I am still learning how to mother myself. And maybe, just maybe, motherhood isn’t only about raising children, it’s also about the ways we learn to care for ourselves, to protect our hearts, and to grow something new out of what was once pain. No, it’s not the story I once wished for. But it’s mine. And I’m learning to live it: fully, fiercely, and with grace. That, to me, is enough.

Live your life with love and compassion, and life will love you back. If there’s one thing I keep hearing in conversations with people I care about, it’s how challenging it can be to feel aligned with life. I’ve spent years wrestling with the things that happened to me. I couldn’t fully accept them. I was constantly trying to break free from the pain, the patterns, the silence. And while I don’t regret fighting for change, I’ve started to understand that some battles aren’t meant to be won; they’re meant to be softened, understood, and eventually released. We often begin this journey toward “a better life” with good intentions. But somewhere along the way, we forget to stop fighting. We start to conquer life instead of living it. We tell ourselves, “Once I achieve this, then I’ll rest. Once I fix that, then I’ll be happy.” So we keep pushing, chasing, grinding. The hunger for victory grows louder, and rest becomes a luxury we believe we haven’t earned. And sure, the chase can be exciting. Sometimes, we win and feel proud. Other times, we lose and feel empathy. We pause, question everything, and gear up to fight again. Some people rise gloriously, while others feel drained, uncertain, or lost in the process. To me, those quiet, disoriented moments, when we forget what we’re even striving for, can be the hardest part of life. Have you ever stopped to ask your life what it wants? Not what you want from it, but what it wants from you ? Have you ever sat quietly and asked: Do I need to keep comparing myself? Do I always need to be chasing something? Or do I just need to breathe, notice the sky, pet my dog, enjoy a warm meal, and take a break from all the noise? Have you asked if maybe your life just wants time? Time to rest. To recover. To grieve. To heal. Time to feel whole again before you head back out into the world with strength and clarity. I hadn’t done that. Not really. After my marriage ended, I dove straight into searching for connection, affection, and attention. But I didn’t even know what I was truly looking for. I didn’t have a clear sense of what I wanted or what I stood for. I’ve always admired people who know exactly who they are, and yet… I hadn’t taken the time to know myself or formed my own. Instead of sitting with my thoughts, I looked to others for comfort. Instead of finding direction, I filled my calendar with walks, workouts, hikes, appointments, and dates. The busyness kept me afloat and made me feel important again. But underneath the productivity was a quiet ache. I was trying to erase the loneliness I had felt for the past few years, to get myself back. And while it felt good to be needed, it also became overwhelming. I stretched myself thin; too many plans, too little time for myself, family and Joey. Even getting dressed felt performative sometimes. I was showing up for the world but not always for myself. Slowly, I began to sense I was moving in the wrong direction. I had rushed because I feared running out of time in my 30s. I rushed through dates, hoping someone would just fit. I tried to force pieces into a jigsaw that didn’t match. They weren’t bad people. They just weren’t mine. Still, no regret. Every experience gave me something. And now, it’s time to rebuild with more intention. I’ve given myself room to explore, and that freedom mattered for the last couple of months. But now, I want to align my actions with my true priorities: building the career I’ve dreamed about, growing my professional network, creating wealth and stability, and, most importantly, reclaiming full independence. This time, not just emotionally. But practically, holistically, and with love. Because the truth is: life is short. Too short to waste on surface-level thrills or temporary highs. The goal isn’t just to feel a spark; it’s to build something steady and strong. Something rooted in love, compassion, confidence, resilience. That’s what creates lasting peace. And after everything, I’ve finally had a quiet, honest talk with my life. It didn’t ask for perfection. It didn’t demand more. It simply said: Live your life with love and compassion, and life will love you back.

Seeing the Truth Beyond Emotion If only we could always analyze situations with complete clarity, seeing things as they are instead of through the lens of emotion. If only we could remember every detail, not just the moments that hurt the most. Maybe then, we wouldn’t blame ourselves for the inevitable, for the relationships that were always bound to break. But the truth is, there is nothing wrong with being someone who loves deeply. There is nothing weak about wanting connection, about holding on for too long, or about believing in the best in people. Yet, there comes a time when love is no longer love; it becomes self-sacrifice, a slow erosion of confidence, a silent acceptance of things that should never be tolerated. Why We Stay Longer Than We Should For many women, walking away is not just about leaving a person; it’s about leaving behind a version of themselves that accepted less than they deserved. Some grew up believing in fairy tales, only to face the harsh reality that love is not always kind. Others were raised in environments where survival came before self-worth, making it easy to mistake struggle for commitment. We are shaped by our past, but we are not bound by it. It’s easy to question yourself after a breakup, was it the jealousy, the fights, the endless cycle of making up and breaking down? But sometimes, the answer is simple: 💔 He couldn’t change, and you couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter. The Power of Choosing Yourself You don’t leave because you stopped loving them. You leave because you finally started loving yourself more. Because deep down, you know that love should not be built on uncertainty, fears, or the constant feeling of being "too much" or "not enough." And once you walk away, something shifts. Slowly, clarity replaces confusion. The past no longer pulls you back, and the future feels like something to look forward to, rather than something to fear. The lesson isn’t about bitterness or regrets. It's about learning that sometimes the bravest thing a woman can do is choosing herself. Growth After Letting Go Healing is never instant, and moving on isn’t just about time, it’s about mindset. The longer we hold on to things that hurt us, the longer we delay the life we actually deserve. Because when you finally let go, you don’t just survive. You grow.

So I slowed down. And I asked myself: What does my life need from me now? If there’s one thing I keep hearing in conversations with people I care about, t’s how challenging it can be to feel truly aligned with life. I’ve spent years wrestling with difficult experiences and internal patterns I didn’t fully understand. I couldn’t accept them for a long time. I kept pushing, trying to fix, trying to move forward. And while I don’t regret that effort, I’ve started to learn that not every struggle needs to be conquered, some are out of my control, while some just need to be softened, understood, and slowly released. We often begin our journey toward a “better life” with good intentions. But somewhere along the way, we forget to pause. We start managing life as a task to conquer rather than a space to grow in. The thought becomes: Once I achieve this, I’ll rest. Once I fix that, I’ll finally feel fulfilled. So we keep chasing. The pressure intensifies. The rest we promised ourselves gets pushed further and further away. And while some of those achievements bring pride, others leave us questioning what we’re actually chasing. I’ve come to believe that one of the hardest moments in life is when you forget what you’re striving for. You’re doing all the right things, yet still feel misaligned. For a while, I filled every corner of my life with activity, work, fitness, back-to-back commitments. On the surface, I was thriving. But deep down, I was trying to erase the emptiness that had crept in over the past few years. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was replacing self-reflection with motion. I was trying to reclaim a sense of worth by staying busy, visible, “productive.” It felt good to be needed again. But it also became overwhelming. I stretched myself thin, so much so that there was little space left for my own voice, or even my own rest. Eventually, I noticed that some of my decisions were made from urgency, not clarity. I was moving, but not always meaningfully. So I slowed down. And I asked myself: What does my life need from me now? Not in terms of goals or milestones, but in energy, presence, and intention. I realized I was rushing, through connections, through transitions, through expectations I’d placed on myself. I tried to make things fit that didn’t. I overlooked what I truly needed in order to keep up with what I thought I should want. But every experience, even the ones that didn’t last, taught me something valuable. Now, I’m rebuilding. With more intention. With clearer priorities. I’m focusing on the goals I’ve been carrying for years, building a career that reflects my values, growing meaningful networks, creating financial independence, and reclaiming agency over my time and energy. This time, not just emotionally, but holistically. This is what redefining progress on my own terms has come to mean: stepping away from the noise, tuning into my needs, and letting clarity guide my momentum. Because life is short. Too short to be guided by temporary highs or someone else’s version of success. The goal isn’t just to feel a spark, it’s to create something rooted in love, resilience, self-respect, and empowerment. After everything, I finally had a quiet, honest talk with my life. It didn’t ask for more hustle. It didn’t want perfection. It simply said: When you redefine progress on your own terms, and lead with love and compassion, life finds a way to love you back.

There’s something humbling about standing among trees that have witnessed centuries. In Sequoia, time slows. Everything quiets down, externally and internally. It's the kind of place that doesn’t just ask for stillness; it teaches it. What becomes clear in a setting like this is how much energy we spend trying to control, explain, or react to what life throws at us. The human impulse is strong, quick responses, emotional swings, the chase for fairness. But fairness is rarely guaranteed, and not every feeling demands a reaction. Sometimes, growth looks like not responding right away. Letting emotions breathe before naming them. Giving situations the space to unfold, without forcing meaning onto every moment. Sequoia showed that peace isn’t found in fixing everything. It’s in choosing where to place your attention. Sequoia showed that peace isn’t found in fixing everything. It’s in choosing where to place your attention. It’s learning that not all discomfort needs to be challenged; some of it just needs time. That stillness can be more powerful than resolution. There’s a quiet kind of freedom in deciding what deserves your energy, and what doesn’t. Especially as life moves forward and time feels more valuable, there's wisdom in being selective with what you hold onto. Not every emotion is a truth. Not every trigger is a call to act. Among the trees, the lesson became simple: give life time.  Let it unfold. Let it teach. And maybe, just maybe, let it carry what you no longer need. Not Everything Needs a Response

What I’ve really been seeking is my own sense of emotional fullness. That feeling doesn’t have to come from anyone else. This morning, like clockwork, my thoughts wandered back to someone I briefly met. It wasn't about them, not really. Not anymore. It was about something else entirely, a feeling. That spark. That warmth. The emotional buzz of possibility. I used to believe I was thinking about a person. Now I know I’ve been chasing the feeling they represented. It hit me, what I crave isn’t a face, a name, or even a presence. It’s a sensation I miss. One that makes me feel centered, alive, even lit up in ways I didn’t realize I needed. But here’s the truth I’ve been slowly walking myself into: that feeling doesn’t have to come from anyone else. What I’ve really been seeking is my own sense of emotional fullness. Intimacy, validation, affection, yes, they’re beautiful when shared. But lately, I’ve noticed how much I lean on the idea of external connection to refill my internal well. And I’m calling myself out on that. Not to shame, but to shift. Because I know I’m capable of cultivating that connection within myself. It’s not the first time I’ve found me caught in this loop, romanticizing a few shared moments, assigning weight to something that may have just been fleeting. I think many of us do this, quietly. We search for meaning where we felt most alive. We crave another dose of that emotional clarity. But I’ve also learned that it’s a trap if we’re not careful, a distraction dressed up as desire. And that’s where the frustration creeps in. Not at anyone else, but with myself. For letting a brief connection take up too much real estate in my mind. For rerunning conversations in my head. For wondering if I could have done something differently. For giving more thought to someone else's attention than to my own well-being. My time is valuable. My energy is powerful. And my mind? Brilliant when it's focused, free, and full of the things that light me up, not someone else’s silence. I’m not swearing off connection—but I am choosing to stop chasing shadows. I’d rather invest in the version of myself that doesn’t wait for love to walk in the door to feel whole. I’m not swearing off connection. I’m not closing myself off from love or intimacy. I just stop chasing shadows. Because chasing something you can’t name, can’t hold, can’t ground—it’s exhausting. I’d rather invest in the version of myself that doesn’t wait for love to walk in the door to feel whole. I’ve had glimpses of the feeling I want, connection, safety, electricity, softness. And I’m thankful for those moments. They taught me what I enjoy, what I’m drawn to, what I value. But they’re not my only source. They’re not the blueprint. They’re just reminders of what I’m fully capable of creating for myself. So here I am, reminding myself of something I already knew but needed to say out loud again: I don’t need to chase feeling. I need to anchor it within me.

I don’t need every connection to last in order for it to be meaningful. There was something uncannily familiar about the way we connected, like meeting a version of myself, slightly more grounded, maybe a little wiser. Our conversation didn’t just flow; it unfolded with an ease that made time irrelevant. I didn’t even realize how far we’d hiked until the heat nudged my body to slow down. Somewhere in those hours, a quiet shift happened. It wasn’t dramatic or sudden. It was internal, a reminder of how much I love being me, and how much more I want to grow into that. This person wasn’t the most conventionally attractive I’ve met. But their mind, humility, and layered past made their presence magnetic. An economist, a father, a political asylum seeker, his story carried both weight and wisdom. And in the unfolding of it, I was reminded not just of his resilience, but of my own, and of the depth and possibility that exist beneath the surface. What pulled me in wasn’t circumstance, it was connection. It was how we listened, how we exchanged stories without pretense, and how little the usual labels mattered in that moment. We’re quick to categorize people: divorced, refugee, parent, this or that. But when you're sitting across from someone who’s showing up with truth and presence, labels fall away. What remains is the human experience, and whether you’re willing to meet it. What stayed with me wasn’t what he’d been through, but how he carried it. His effort. His attentiveness. The way he made space for real dialogue. It reminded me that connection doesn’t always look the way we expect, but when it’s there, you feel it. And still—yes—it flickered out as suddenly and quietly as it sparked. I don’t have the answer to why. I probably never will. I wouldn’t have walked away like that, but I’m learning not to project my values onto someone else’s choices. I can’t explain another person’s silence, but I can choose how I respond to it. And while I wouldn’t have chosen silence as a way to communicate, I’ve also learned to let people move in the ways they need to. Not everyone processes or responds the same, and that’s okay. It’s nothing personal, and it’s not something I need to overanalyze. The most unexpected part? I’m not bitter. I’m clear. Clear on what I want: depth, thoughtfulness, presence, and emotional intelligence. Clear on what I need: someone who chooses connection over convenience. Someone who matches the energy I bring. And maybe most of all, clear that I don’t need every connection to last in order for it to be meaningful. And that clarity? That’s the energy I’m bringing forward. That’s the engine I’ll keep running, for as long as I’m breathing. Loving Me More Through Connection!