The Quiet Cost of Wholeness

I woke up just before midnight with a quiet knowing — a kind of energetic shift in my body, a signal I’ve come to recognize. I knew someone I had hoped to see again wasn’t going to come tomorrow.

I checked my messages, and I was right.

This happens more than I like to admit — not because I’m paranoid or needy, but because something in me knows when a connection is slowly drifting away. It’s not abandonment. It’s not insecurity. It’s intuition. Subtle, embodied awareness that comes from having to feel what others wouldn’t say.

It used to be devastating. Now, it’s just… sad. Familiar.

Because the truth is, I really thought we had something worth exploring. A sense of mutual understanding, shared wounds, quiet resonance. But maybe I stirred something in them. Maybe my growth, my certainty, my emotional honesty made them uncomfortable in a way they couldn’t name. And so… they stepped back.

I’ve seen it before. People who say yes until the last second, then quietly disappear. And somehow, my body always knows.

I used to think this meant I was pushing people away. That I was too much. Now I think it’s just that my presence — my full, honest, integrated self — brings things to the surface in others. Things they aren’t ready to face. Maybe I reflect back the parts of themselves they’ve suppressed. Maybe I remind them of the freedom they’re afraid to claim.

That’s not my fault. But it is lonely.

I see now that I’m not isolated — I’m just separated from people who can’t meet me. And that distinction matters. I no longer collapse into myself the way I used to. I no longer interpret distance as proof that I’m unworthy. I just name the sadness, trust the feeling, and allow space for something else to come.

And maybe that’s the work right now — leaving the door open without begging anyone to walk in.

It’s strange how often people seem to edge away once I stop keeping myself small. I used to suppress parts of me — especially my intelligence, my articulation, the clarity with which I can express what others barely feel. I think my mum had something to do with that — her presence used to shrink me. But she’s gone now. And I’m free.

And now that I’m allowing myself to speak from my full intelligence, both intellectual and emotional, I’m seeing just how rare this combination is — especially in a man. I’m incredibly emotionally sensitive, perceptive, intuitive. And I’m also incredibly articulate. That’s not arrogance — it’s just true. And it can be incredibly isolating.

Because I’m not just feeling deeply — I’m seeing things other people seem to miss. Patterns. Nuances. Unspoken signals. I’ve developed what feels like a sixth sense — probably born of trauma, yes, but honed into something that actually helps me live with more honesty.

I think the tutors on my course see it. Maybe because they’ve done more inner work. Maybe because they’ve read my assignments and recognised what I’ve been through. They see something different in me. A depth. A clarity. A readiness. And for the first time, I think I’m starting to see it too.

I used to think I had to justify my place. That I had to prove I belonged. But my Level 4 interview wasn’t about proving anything. It was just about showing up. And I did. Fully. Honestly. I didn’t need to convince anyone — I just needed to see myself clearly. And I did.

And maybe, just maybe, allowing myself to be fully seen — publicly seen — through this website, through sharing my truth so openly, was the quiet tipping point that made some people pull away. Maybe I stirred something in them that they weren’t ready to sit with. Maybe it cracked something open — something spiritual, something tender — and they just didn’t want to be around it. I don’t think it was malicious. I just think it was too much for them right now.

And maybe they won’t continue this journey — even if they have the chance. Not because they aren’t capable, but because going deeper might mean facing things they’re not ready to face. Severing ties with old stories. Stepping into a version of themselves they’re not ready to claim. That’s not a judgment — it’s just what I see. And it’s okay. It’s just… disappointing. A little sad.

But something is different now.

Because I’m still showing up.

I’m still letting myself be seen — even when it stirs something in others.

I’m still keeping the door open — even when I suspect most won’t walk through it.

Because maybe the point isn’t to be met by everyone. Maybe it’s to stop abandoning myself in the hopes that I will be.

Maybe this part of my life is about standing in my wholeness — even when that wholeness is confronting, misunderstood, or left unread.

And actually — not everyone has walked away. There are people on my course who see me. Not because I ticked a box or did something impressive, but because they feel something in me that’s real. They’ve commented on my honesty. My realness. Not a skill or a label — my essence. And that’s the most validating thing I could hope for, because those are the qualities I’ve worked the hardest to reclaim.

Stripping away all that conditioning hasn’t been easy. But I think I’ve landed in a place where people can feel that I’m being honest. And maybe that does intimidate some — but it also draws others closer. And I want to welcome them in, fully. With both arms.

Because I’ve sat with my darkness long enough to fall in love with it.

And now that I have, I don’t need to beg anyone to stay.

And still — there’s something else I’m feeling.

A fear I haven’t named until now.

The fear of being seen.

And deeper than that, the shame of even wanting to be seen.

That’s what’s really here, quietly humming beneath the surface. Because somewhere along the way, that longing to be witnessed became tied to weakness. Maybe I was taught it was needy. Or selfish. Or dangerous. That wanting to be seen meant being vulnerable, exposed — unsafe.

But I do want to be seen. Not for who I pretend to be — but for who I am. And I’m no longer ashamed of that.

Because that desire is not weakness. It’s human. It’s holy.

And now, I think of my son.

And how he, too, will probably carry this depth. He’s already so bright, so emotionally aware — so clearly more than the world might be ready for. And it worries me sometimes. Because I know how lonely that can be.

But he has something I didn’t: me.

He has a father who sees it. Who’s lived it. Who’s walked through the storm and kept going.

I believe he will find his place. I believe he will find people who meet him.

And until then, I will be his place.

And maybe one last thing — there’s a part of me that still wishes that all the people I’ve ever known would somehow understand me when they read this site.

I know that’s not realistic. I know many won’t look. Some might look and not really see. And others might feel something uncomfortable reflected back at them — something they’re not ready to face.

But still… that part of me hopes. The one that just wants to be loved and accepted for who I am. The part that’s always hoped.

And maybe, for a long time, I was afraid that hope was secretly driving all of this — that this project was some covert attempt to finally earn belonging.

But I don’t think that’s true anymore.

Because I know now, in my body, in my breath, that I’m doing this for me.

I’m doing it to anchor myself. To honour the truth. To show up for my own soul.

And yes — if someone sees me more clearly through this work, that’s beautiful.

But if not?

I will keep going anyway.