Healing Isn’t Loud. Sometimes It’s Silent Boundaries.

 

The Kind of Connection You Miss Most

There are days I ache for connection.

Not surface-level chatter.
Not another “How are you?” that expects a tidy answer.

I mean the kind of connection where someone sees you—really sees you—and doesn’t flinch at the mess. The kind that doesn’t pull back when you can’t smile. The kind that stays.

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When Grief Teaches You to Pull Back

Somewhere along the way, after the trauma of sudden loss… after watching my husband die beside me… after being met with silence from the people who once called me “family”—something inside me curled inward.

I didn’t plan it.
It wasn’t a grand decision.
It was quiet self-preservation.
A quiet voice that said, Don’t reach. It’s not safe.

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When Reaching Out Leads to More Pain

Because when you’ve reached before and been met with absence—
when the meals stopped but the loneliness stayed,
when your church never called,
when your closest friend started to drift,
when your grief was too heavy for people who once claimed to love you—
something changes.

You stop trusting that people mean it when they say, “I’m here for you.”
You stop believing that presence won’t come with conditions.

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The Ache of Longing Without Trust

So you hold the longing in your chest like a fragile glass.
You want to be held.
But you don’t dare extend your hand.
Because if they drop you again… if they disappear…
you’re not sure your heart can handle the shattering.

There’s a deep ache that lives in the middle of solitude and survival.
It’s the tension between needing others and no longer believing they’ll stay.
It’s the pain of sitting in a room full of people, feeling lonelier than when you’re by yourself.

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The Disappearing Act You’ve Learned to Perform

So I’ve learned how to disappear in plain sight.
To show up with my smile, my song, my polite nod.
To master the art of looking “fine” while my soul is bleeding quietly beneath the surface.

I long to reach.
But my body remembers every time I did and came back emptier.

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The Flicker That Refuses to Die

Still, I haven’t given up hope.
Somewhere, deep under the rubble of heartache and grief, there’s a flicker of belief
that maybe—not today, maybe not even tomorrow—but maybe one day
someone will come close enough, gentle enough,
to make me feel safe again.

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🤍 Until Then, I Rest in the Arms of the One Who Stays

Until then, I rest in the arms of the One who never walked away.
The One who weeps when I weep.
The One who sees every unspoken ache.
The One who never says “too much.”
The One who stays.

Hebrews 4:15–16 
“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses… Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”