What Comes After Letting Go

I used to think I skated because I loved it.

But now I’m not so sure. I think I skated because it gave me a sense of connection — or at least the illusion of one. It placed me inside a group, gave me people to meet up with, gave me a role to play. But when I sit with it now, I feel no desire to go back. None. It doesn’t pull on me anymore.

And maybe that’s because my nervous system finally knows the difference between real connection and just being tolerated.

Now I crave something deeper. Not excitement. Not surface-level belonging. Just peace.

When I walk my dog, something settles inside me. People smile. It’s quiet, safe. I’m not chasing. I’m not performing. I’m not trying to earn my place. My body seems to know it’s safe — and maybe that’s the first step in rebuilding my relationship with connection itself.

I used to keep relationships alive long after they’d stopped giving anything back. I traveled to people who didn’t travel to me. I reached out to people who never called. I did work for free. I overfunctioned. I smiled when I wanted to leave. All because I was terrified of losing whatever tiny thread of connection I had.

I wasn’t a victim.
I was starved.

No one ever taught me how to respect myself — because I was never shown what it looks like to be valued. And so I clung. I bent. I tried to fix things by being more useful, more understanding, more patient.

But what I’ve learned is:
You can’t fix childhood wounds by recreating the same dynamic in adulthood and hoping this time it’ll heal.

It won’t.
It never has.

Every time I tried to be open, to be real, to be honest about who I am — people moved away. Not with cruelty, just with distance. They didn’t know what to do with the depth. Or maybe I triggered something in them. Or maybe they just weren’t capable of meeting me where I am. I’ve spent years trying to explain it. Trying to understand. But the truth is, I don’t need to anymore.

I’m allowed to stop reaching.

Right now, I’m lying down in a quiet house. My son is safe downstairs. My dog isn’t barking. And for once, I’m not rushing to do anything or be anyone. I’m just here.

There’s grief in this stillness — but also a strange kind of peace.

I’m realising that maybe my body, my intuition, my nervous system knows what’s good for me. And the more I honour that — the more I say no to things that feel hollow, the more I trust the quiet parts of life — the more grounded I become.

I still have a long way to go.
My psyche still feels fragile.
Hope is still hard to hold.

But something’s shifting.

I’m not trying to fix people anymore.
I’m not trying to fix myself either.
I’m just learning to be here — slowly, honestly — and trust that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to chase love to find it.

Maybe it will meet me where I already am.

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