Where I’ve Been

This year, especially these last few months, clarified something I had been avoiding for a long time: not every relationship that feels intense is good for me. Not for my body. Not for my mind. Not for my nervous system. And not every relationship that matters needs constant interaction or my attention.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to step away from people. It happened the way real change usually does—quietly, without permission, without a plan. I disappeared on people who loved me, disappeared from here too. If you’re reading this, know that I’m grateful you noticed my absence, checked on me, and stayed.

It unfolded somewhere between moving countries, unpacking more than boxes, returning to a town that never quite makes room for me, and realizing how heavy it felt to keep explaining myself. Silence slowly became easier than narration.

What became clear was how deeply environment shapes relationships. Small towns compress everything. Everyone watches. Everyone asks. Concern often masks curiosity, and judgment sits quietly underneath. Conversations stay polite and shallow. Truth makes people uneasy. Depth makes people step back. And if I stay here too long, I’m afraid I won’t recognize myself.

I’ve never known myself as someone still.

I’ve always known myself in motion. Thinking. Desiring. Writing. Wanting. Being wanted. Being seen. Being stirred by conversations, ideas, attraction, possibility. That movement isn’t restlessness. It’s how I know I’m alive.

When that starts to get muted, when I catch myself editing my thoughts, dulling my curiosity, swallowing my desire so I don’t stand out, something inside me thins out. Not loudly. Quietly. I don’t become calmer. I become invisible.

Leaving the corporate world sharpened this awareness. There was no farewell worth remembering. No dramatic exit. Just a quiet refusal to keep living as a permanently curated version of myself. My presence had started to feel like a performance, not a presence. Even my own independence began to feel like a role I was expected to perform well.

So I turned inward. Stopped being what was costing me myself. Gave myself enough time to regulate what had been bottled up. Instead of leaning on people or stimulation to regulate me, I leaned into my body. Sleep, movement, and empty hours held what words couldn’t. Stress that had nowhere to go finally found release. What I once called boredom became something else entirely—a place where nothing was demanded of me.

As my days slowed, my relationships did too. Fewer message exchanges. Longer silences. No urgency to stay relevant in anyone’s life. And in that space, I noticed what actually nourishes me.

What Positive Relationships Feel Like to Me Now

The relationships that positively impact me don’t crowd me. They don’t demand constant access. They don’t thrive on confusion or emotional adrenaline. They offer steadiness. I stopped narrating myself. I stopped reaching for connection just to fill space. Writing stepped aside—not because I had nothing to say, but because presence was finally doing the work words once did.

Oh, no. Those days did not unfold easily. Loneliness showed up often, but not as a wound. As a question. Do I crave connection because I’m alone, or because I’m wired to feel deeply? I’m still sitting with that. But I’ve learned this much: when desire becomes refuge, it costs me myself.

The most positive relationship I built this year was with restraint. With pause. With my body and the version of me that doesn’t react immediately. Each time I didn’t distract myself. Each time I stayed inside discomfort instead of handing it to someone else, my self-trust grew. It wasn’t cinematic. It felt more like self-control and integrity.

Somewhere beneath all that restraint, I realized I wasn’t becoming weaker, I was becoming tired of carrying myself alone. Strength without tenderness had started to feel like endurance, not empowerment. I realized I didn’t want to keep hardening just to survive. I wanted room to soften. To be met without bracing. To feel held in ways that didn’t require explanation or effort. Wanting to be held the way I wished didn’t revoke my independence—it reminded me that even the strongest parts of me need respite and assurance.

And this is where I need to be honest with myself and you: I’m not finished with this lesson. I’m just no longer pretending I don’t know what it’s asking of me.

I still feel the pull of intensity. I still crave emotional intimacy beyond the physical. Desire still flares before reason steps in. But now I notice the moment it starts costing me myself. And sometimes, I choose differently. Not perfectly. But consciously.

Here’s what I know now: I don’t feel alive by becoming dull. I am vibrant and active by returning to rhythm. Writing. Playing with words. Engaging for mental stimulation. Letting my voice have texture again.

The people who truly connect with me don’t need me muted or disciplined into silence. They recognize me when I’m myself and untamed—when I’m expressive, when there’s a spark in what I share. That aliveness isn’t performance. It’s coming back home to be the way I am.

What I value most now is being seen without negotiation. Being allowed to exist as I am, not adjusted for comfort or toned down to fit someone else’s capacity. I don’t want to soften my edges or mute my sensitivity to make myself easier to hold. Being seen isn’t always gentle. It can invite misunderstanding, even rejection. Even make others feel too much. I’ve accepted that. Depth isn’t meant for everyone. Access is earned.

My best friend reached out after a month of noticing my silence. No questions asked, no explanations owed. We talked about work, money, cities, homes. About wanting depth without noise. Connection without performance. She told me I had taken a number of chances and was still holding it all together, that I was strong. That I inspired her. I thanked her for seeing me through every shift.

That’s what healthy relationships do. They don’t rush you. They don’t open the doors with judgment. They don’t need you to shrink or perform. They let you be where you are—and they don’t require daily proof of connection.

Most days now, I speak to almost no one, by choice. Not from melancholy, but from discernment. I no longer want constant contact. I want depth and rootedness. Playfulness without performance. Conversations that feel like coming home, not something I have to recover from.

Positive relationships, for me, look different now. Less explanation. More space. My boundary is simple: I don’t want a life that requires recovery from the people in it.

I can’t wait to begin again. Not because I’m escaping, but because I feel ready. I don’t know exactly what follows, and for once, I’m not trying to control it. This quiet isn’t where I disappear—it’s where I gather myself, understand myself more deeply, and become clearer about what I need. What comes next will need all of me, in ways this place can’t hold.

Before the year closes, I wanted to mark this passage. Not to announce anything or justify my absence, but simply to acknowledge where I am.

For now, I’m letting the year end without ceremony, carrying forward only what remained authentic. And when I move again, it won’t be for escape—it will be for expansion. The relationships that come with me will know how to hold me whole.

Wishing you a year that doesn’t cost you yourself.