There’s something I’ve been noticing more clearly lately—something that lives underneath so many of my choices, my hesitations, and even my pain.

It’s the ache.

That deep, quiet longing to be seen. To be known. To be loved without needing to perform. To be held without having to earn it.

For a long time, I thought this ache was a symptom of my childhood—of wounds left open, of needs unmet. And yes, for those of us who experienced emotional neglect or disconnection growing up, the ache can become sharp. Loud. Desperate. It can drive us toward all kinds of coping—sex, achievement, caretaking, disappearing—just to try to feel some version of “enough.”

But the more I listen, the more I learn… this ache isn’t just mine. It’s human.

Every person carries some version of it. That existential ache to feel chosen. To feel met. Even if they can’t name it. Even if it’s buried under confidence, anger, or numbness. It’s still there, quietly shaping relationships, ambition, fear, and longing.

The ache isn’t a flaw. It’s a signal. It shows that we were made for connection.

And here’s where I’m learning to be gentle:

Wanting to be seen doesn’t make me weak.
Craving love doesn’t make me needy.
Feeling the ache doesn’t make me broken.

It makes me human.

But—and this is the part that matters—it’s not someone else’s job to carry it for me. That’s where love becomes burdened, and relationships collapse under the weight of unspoken rescue fantasies.

What I’m practicing now is simply turning toward the ache. Naming it. Tending to it. Offering it kindness instead of shame. And in doing so, I’m slowly learning to walk beside it, rather than letting it drag me behind.

Because when the ache is no longer exiled or projected, it becomes part of the story I can tell honestly. To a partner. To a friend. To myself.

And that… that is how it starts to heal.