Altair

I’ve written enough now that if I were to vanish, my son would still know who I was. Maybe not every detail, but the essence. And honestly, he probably already knows it — in the way I look at him, hold him, laugh with him. I think that’s enough. I know that’s enough.

So I don’t need to frantically create or archive. I can rest.

Because I’ve just let go of the last thread tying me to people who no longer belong in my life. One by one, I’ve said goodbye to relationships that drained me, that kept me tethered to a past self I’ve outgrown. It wasn’t with bitterness — it was with love for who I’ve become.

My mother was the hardest. The oldest. The deepest root. Letting go of her — and everyone else after — has left me with a space I never thought I’d inhabit:
Peace.

Not the surface kind. The deep kind.
The kind that says: I’m proud of myself. And I trust myself. Fully.
Maybe for the first time.

I’m not afraid to be alone anymore. In fact, I’ve found a kind of quiet thrill in it.
But I’m also open — more open than I’ve ever been — to a relationship. Not to fill a gap, not to be rescued, but to walk beside someone. To share. To reflect love, not extract it.

Yes, I’ll still project sometimes. But I’ll see it.
Yes, I’ll still feel the need for touch. But I won’t abandon myself to chase it.
Yes, I’ll still meet people who can’t meet me — but I won’t bend into who I’m not to keep them.

I’ve arrived at a balance I didn’t know was possible:
Grace for others, without the cost of myself.

And now, I’m curious.
Not desperate. Not performing.
Just… curious about who might enter my life now that I’ve made space.

This isn’t a high. It’s a horizon.
A realignment.

Altair — the soaring one. The bridge between constellations. The star that holds its place in the sky no matter who’s watching.

That’s where I am now.

And I’m not looking back.