There’s a dad I’ve got to know over time at my son’s football team. He’s enthusiastic—maybe more than anyone else there—and you can tell he really wants to help coach. But because of his past, he isn’t allowed to officially volunteer.
Still, he throws himself into it, shouting encouragements, organising drills, trying to lead. The problem is, the team is an under-nines side at the very bottom of the tenth league in Manchester. They’re not very good, and sometimes that seems to infuriate him to no end.

One day he was shouting at all the kids for not doing things right, and I just gently touched his shoulder and said, jokingly, “Maybe this isn’t for you, mate.” It wasn’t meant to cut—it was meant to help him step back, to see the moment differently.
A reminder that it’s just kids, that it’s okay, that it’s not worth getting worked up.

But it must have struck something raw. Since then, he’s been cold with me—no hello, just silence that lingers in the air.

At first, it stung. That sense of being subtly punished for speaking truth. But the more I sit with it, the more I see what really happened: my authenticity brushed up against his shame.
It’s not my fault that he wasn’t ready to see himself.

He’s not a bad man. He’s like a big kid himself—excited, impatient, wanting to be seen as capable. I can see the child in him.
And seeing that doesn’t mean I want to move closer.
It just means I understand.

That’s been a big shift for me: I can empathize without needing to engage. I can notice the tension, the discomfort, and simply breathe. I don’t have to chase harmony or explain myself. Silence doesn’t mean rejection anymore—it’s just space.

I’ve also learned that not everyone can hold self-awareness comfortably. Some people are too anxious, too defended, too used to controlling the narrative. I can still see their humanity, but that doesn’t mean I owe them intimacy.

And then there are others who surprise me—the ones I initially misread. Like a guy at college I thought was performative or overly confident. Then one day, when he shared something real about fear and belonging, I saw his depth. It reminded me that everyone has layers, and people can grow on you when you least expect it.

I think that’s what this whole stage of my life is teaching me:
To see people clearly, but not cling.
To understand, but not overextend.
To let silence exist without turning it into a wound.

Maybe this is what integration feels like—not perfect peace, but gentle acceptance that not every connection needs to go deep. Some are meant to stay surface-level, some are meant to fade, and a few—just a few—are meant to surprise you.