Poking Sadness

Some days, it sits there, waiting. A low hum in the background, just enough to be felt but not enough to be named. The kind of sadness that doesn’t demand attention, doesn’t throw itself against the walls, doesn’t even announce its arrival—just settles in, like dust on the kitchen shelves. You go about your day, make coffee, answer emails, walk past windows filled with people who seem to have somewhere important to be. You feel the weight, but you don’t fight it. It’s an old companion by now.

Starting over is a funny thing. It’s not a singular moment, not some grand cinematic scene where you pack up and drive into the sunset. It’s a series of small decisions, most of them unremarkable. You stop texting first. You rearrange the furniture regularly. You sit alone in a place and don’t check your phone. You let people carry their own weight. Not in a cold way, not in a way that says I don’t care, but in a way that finally understands: you never could have saved them, and they never asked you to.

You used to believe that love was measured in sacrifice, that the more you gave away, the more valuable you became. It felt good, for a while, being the one who understood, who held space, who made things easier. Until it didn’t. Until the balance tipped, and you realized you were shouldering things that were never yours. And so, you begin the quiet work of stepping back. You still care, of course you care, but you learn to do it differently. Less like someone crumbling under the weight of it all, more like a person with a life of their own.

And yet, even in this newfound clarity, there is the longing. The part of you that still aches for a moment of effortless connection, for the rare and quiet relief of being seen. You catch glimpses of it sometimes—gifs received randomly but timed so well they alter your dreams, a conversation that flows easily, unfolding in a way that feels effortless, a shared silence that feels full instead of empty. A laugh that arrives at the exact same time, like some small proof that your minds met in the same place. These are the moments you tuck away, proof that despite everything, despite the spaces between us, despite the weight we carry alone, we are meant to find each other.

And maybe—just maybe—good things are coming. Not because you earned them, not because you finally did everything right, but because life has a way of filling open spaces. And you made room. Because you’re keeping the door unlocked, the light on, the space beside you unoccupied but waiting, just in case. Maybe you’ll turn a corner and meet someone who sees you in a way you forgot to see yourself. Maybe you’ll find comfort in the small rituals—the clink of a spoon against that new fancy cup, the warmth of an arm brushing against yours in an unspoken understanding. Maybe the sadness will never leave, but it will soften, become just one note in a much longer song.

You sit with it all—the mystery, the ambiguity, the weight, the lightness. The sadness and the fun and the pain and the joy and the sheer wonder of being here, alive, in this moment, with all these other messy, complicated, extraordinary people. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to fix anything. You let it be what it is. You let yourself be what you are. And it is so, so enough.

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