There’s no cozy ritual in this post. No recipe. No list of gentle practices. Just me, sitting here, trying to put words to something that doesn’t want to be tidy.

I’ve been asking myself lately what comes next for this blog—for Finding Solace, for my writing, for what I’m meant to offer. And I kept reaching for the comfortable things. The aesthetically pleasing things. The things that would make you feel better without asking too much.

But that’s not what wants to come through today.

The Question I Didn’t Want to Ask

A few months ago, I started this blog with something close to giddiness. I felt called—like a conduit, like my words might actually help someone. I wrote about sanctuary and healing and the tender work of coming home to yourself.

And then I realized something I didn’t want to admit: I was writing to people who might never read it. People I’ve lost in ways that are harder to name than death. People whose silence speaks louder than any words we used to share.

I’ve been the pleaser most of my life. It’s not a big jump from pleaser to healer. And there I was, trying to heal people who haven’t asked to be healed, offering wisdom to people who might not want it, building a bridge to people who aren’t walking toward me.

What I Remember

I remember being small. Reaching for connection secretly under the family dinner table when the world around me felt too loud, too chaotic. Finding comfort in quiet gestures—a touch, a glance, the wordless understanding between people who are just trying to survive the same storm.

Some of us were too sensitive for the environments we grew up in. Too porous for all that noise. We learned early that you don’t always say what you feel. You just get through it.

And sometimes we got through it together.

Now we get through it apart.

The Small Gesture

Recently, someone from my past reached out. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple gesture of vulnerability after a long silence.

My first thought was: I’m not responding.

Fifteen minutes later, I did. Something small. Something safe. An acknowledgment without reopening everything.

That fifteen minutes between “no” and “okay, but carefully”—that’s the whole journey, isn’t it? That’s what hard and right feels like in real time.

Not a flood of forgiveness. Not pretending nothing happened. Not reopening everything we’ve closed. Just… acknowledgment. A tiny door left slightly open. Love with boundaries still intact.

What I Hope

Maybe someday the people I’ve lost will be in a better headspace. Maybe someday they’ll see that I wasn’t the enemy—just someone who chose differently. Maybe they’re reading these words right now and recognizing something.

I think some of them might miss the old me. The one who absorbed everything. The one who made it easy for everyone else by making it impossible for myself.

But I’m not gone. I’m just real now.

And if anyone from my past is reading this, here’s what I want you to know: I remember who we were together. I remember when we were on the same side.

I still care about your wellbeing. Even after the pain. Even though we each carry whatever we choose to hold onto.

I want you to be well. I want you to be happy. And I know—I know—that’s not my job. I know it hasn’t always been kind between us. I know I can’t fix you, can’t heal you, can’t make you see me the way I want to be seen.

But care remains anyway. Complicated. Boundaried. From a distance.

But it remains.