I went to the event with everyone, and to be honest, it was lovely. Speaking to so many different people felt nice — even relaxing. There was a sense of acceptance in the air. A gentleness. It felt good to get to know people more deeply.

And yet, when I looked at my watch, my stress levels were almost at 100 for the entire time.

That was a little sad to see, because in my body, I didn’t feel stressed. I felt very much myself. It all felt natural. But it left me wondering — is this really about being introverted? Or is my nervous system just burnt out?

Maybe it’s not about a lack of desire for connection. Maybe it’s just that my system has a limit, and when I hit it — even with safe people — the cost is invisible until later.

It’s revealing.

There’s also a bittersweetness to it all. Some of the people I connected with today, I may never see again. And the comfort I found in those conversations might not ever happen again either. There’s beauty in that. And grief.

A few are planning to go on to Level 4, so maybe I will see them again. Maybe some of those connections will be allowed to deepen. That thought brings some hope.

I stayed for three hours — which, for me, in that kind of environment, is a long time. And I managed it. I even enjoyed it. I don’t think I said anything I regret. I felt honest, authentic, and deeply connected in the conversations I had.

Some people I didn’t get to talk to as much as I would’ve liked — but that’s okay. Not everything needs to be complete.

And something else happened, too.

People told me they’d read my blog.

They said it had rhythm. That it read like poetry. And that was exactly what I’d hoped for — something that felt like art, not just reflection. One person asked how I learned to write like that, and if I’m honest, I got a lot of help from AI. But AI only helped shape what was already in me. It gave it a texture I didn’t quite know how to express. Now that I’ve heard how it landed, maybe I can carry that rhythm forward on my own, too.

It meant a lot — hearing that people spent their own time, their own free time, reading what I wrote. More people than I expected. Maybe even more than I was comfortable with. But there was something healing about it. Something accepting.

It was also the first time I spoke out loud to someone about separating from my mother. And these two people I told — they were both mothers themselves. Maybe they didn’t fully understand. But they accepted it, because they already knew who I was. They knew that if I made a decision like that, it would be one I’d sat with deeply. One that came from necessity.

Still, there was guilt. There always is, in a way.

But it also reminded me — maybe I know myself more than I realize. Maybe I know the theory behind all this, more than most people do. And maybe that means I see things others don’t, and feel things others might not. I don’t know exactly what that means yet.

But it means something.

Poem:

The Cost of Light

I lit a candle in a crowded room
and stayed to watch it burn.
The flame was gentle, warm —
but still, my skin remembered fire.

I said things I don’t usually say,
and nobody flinched.
Some people listened.
Some people read.

And I was seen
in a way that didn’t ask me
to shrink.