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The self-love trope that’s shoved down our throats ad nauseam. That we are enough by ourselves. That we are whole beings. That if we can’t achieve that— above all else— we’ve somehow failed. But hear me out. What if we weren’t meant to be whole alone? What if other people were meant to give us pieces, and receive pieces of us in return? What if that’s why we’re wired— for community, for a shared meal and a quiet evening, for laughter that fills a room, for the simple miracle

I don’t know the hour or the day I’ll receive the gift of gazing upon you— Of seeing the eyes of love reflected back. To hold your tiny hands, To kiss each finger and toe, Each one a fragment of the love that made you. But I need you to know a few things. You will not have to fight my wars. You will not spend your hours Healing what I lacked the courage to face. For that, I promise you— Every dark corner in me, Every ache and tear, I will tend and soften before your arrival

I’m loud because when I wasn’t noticed, I disappeared. The louder I am, the more attention I get— and the more attention I get, the quieter the screams become. The darkness inside me softens, just enough to breathe. They ask, “Why are you the way that you are?” “Why do you have to be so much?” But maybe they’ve never known what it feels like to be unseen— to exist like air, present yet untouchable. And for that, I’m glad for them. They were given the gift of being loved quiet