I woke up just before midnight with a quiet knowing — a subtle pull in my chest, like something had already been decided. I checked my phone, and there it was: Dave wasn’t coming tomorrow.

It wasn’t a surprise, not really. My body had already known. It’s happened before — this feeling of someone pulling away before they say it out loud. It’s not an abandonment wound, and it’s not insecurity. It’s a kind of deep, bodily awareness I’ve developed over time. A skill, really — one that comes from having to feel what isn’t being said. A kind of emotional radar that rarely misses.

And when it hits… it hits quietly. A familiar sadness. A sense of, “Here we are again.” Someone I hoped to connect with pulling back. Drifting. Dissolving. No big fallout. Just space where there used to be potential.

It reminds me of others — Simon, for instance. I invited him on a trip years ago, and all the way up to the last minute, he said yes. And still, I knew he’d pull out. And he did. That same felt sense that something was slipping, even while words tried to say otherwise.

It’s hard not to internalize that. It’s hard not to wonder if, somehow, I keep pushing people away. Because I do keep showing up. I share openly. I try to stay connected. I name my needs without demanding anything. I reveal the layers people usually hide. And still… they leave.

So I get why, for so many years, I stayed small. Being small meant being palatable. Being small meant being kept. And now, the more I grow — the more honest I become — the more I seem to invite people to step back. Not everyone, but enough to make me wonder.

And I think that’s the price of being real. Of showing up in a world that’s terrified of depth. People say they want authenticity until they meet it face-to-face — and then it gets quiet.

I don’t think people leave because they dislike me. Maybe I just stir something in them they’re not ready to look at. Maybe I remind them of their own fear, or potential, or pain. I used to think rejection meant I was wrong. Now I think it just means they’re not ready.

Still, it’s confusing. There are people on my course who are kind — but their kindness feels polished, people-pleasing. I don’t know if they truly see me. Maybe they connect with me in the way they’re capable of. Maybe that’s all it is. But it leaves me longing for something else. Something mutual. Something rooted.

There’s grief in being rare. Grief in having worked so hard to become more myself, only to discover that the more I show up fully, the fewer people can meet me there.

But still — I show up.

Still, I trust my body.

Still, I let the truth come out, even when it costs me something.

Because I’ve also seen what happens when I don’t. And that cost is far greater.

Maybe the lesson isn’t about losing Dave, or Simon, or anyone else. Maybe it’s about learning to trust myself so deeply that when I feel the distance growing, I can let it go with dignity. I can stop chasing. I can stop questioning my sanity. I can name the sadness and let it move through me — not as a failure, but as a sign that I’m on the right path. The lonelier, quieter path of those who refuse to abandon themselves to be loved.

And maybe — just maybe — the rarest connections come not when I reach for them, but when I’ve stopped trying to be understood by those who can’t.

Because the truth is, I am becoming someone I can trust.

And that matters more than being kept.