Things are still the same, though not as they used to be.
There have been improvements. I’m less afraid to speak up. Less afraid to challenge what doesn’t feel right. More settled in saying no to things that don’t meet my needs in the moment. I can sense myself taking up space in ways I once avoided, or ways that used to feel overshadowed.
There have also been moments of connection, conversations that felt productive, vulnerable, and even hopeful. Yet, I’m not settled. Something still feels unresolved, like I’m constantly reaching for the faint whisper of something solid that doesn’t quite make sense through the heavy, choking fog.
What I keep coming back to is the suppressed exhaustion: the feeling that being seen and heard requires constant effort. The limpidity that only comes if I ask for it explicitly, repeatedly, carefully. And even then, it doesn’t always land.
I don’t question the presence of love. That part feels clear. We care deeply for one another, and much of what we do is in service of that care. But I’m starting to understand that love alone doesn’t automatically create partnership, and naming that feels both cliché and strangely brave.
I’m realizing how much of myself I’ve spent trying to translate my needs into the “right” language. How often I’ve assumed the roles of initiator, interpreter, and emotional regulator. How quickly exhaustion sets in when the responsibility for change feels one-sided, even when intentions are good.
What hurts most isn’t conflict itself; it’s the lack of resolution. When tension dissolves without being addressed, it can feel like peace to one person and purgatory to the other. I’m learning how deeply unfinished conversations affect me, and how much I need more semblance of closure to feel safe.
Recently, I’ve been told that my disquietude comes from not knowing who I am or what I want. I’m not sure that’s true. If anything, I feel closer to myself than I have in a long time. And that clarity brings its own fear, because it forces me to ask what I’m willing to keep fighting for, and what I might one day need to stop fighting against.
There are bright spots. New beginnings. A future that looks full of possibilities. And still, I’m noticing how easily external gestures can be mistaken for repair, how often material progress is expected to compensate for emotional distance. I’m learning that gratitude and grief can coexist, even when that feels disagreeable.
What surprises me most is this: I’m no longer afraid of what happens either way. I know I will survive. That knowledge is both grounding and confounding.
I’m still choosing to fight for love, growth, and understanding. But I’m also paying attention to my limits — how much fight I have left and the parts of myself that have been quiet for a long time, asking not for answers but for fidelity.
Lately, I’ve been exploring faith again — not as certainty, but as a form of inquiry. Not as blind belief, but as something to sit with. I don’t know what I believe yet. I only know that I’m trying to loosen my grip on control and see what happens when I stop carrying everything alone.
I don’t have conclusions, only observations. And a growing sense that reconnecting with myself means telling the truth gently, even when it complicates the story.
For now, I’m trying something. And I’m staying curious about where it leads.