01/11/2026
I See You
I see you in the small, uncelebrated moments, the ones no one posts about and no one applauds. I see you pausing before you answer, letting yourself breathe instead of rushing to keep the peace. I see you noticing your body rather than judging it, asking what it needs rather than forcing it to perform. I see you choosing one small act of care when everything in you wants to shut down. I see the way you carry grief quietly, how you keep showing up to your life even when parts of it are ending. I see you practicing honesty that doesn’t explode the room, truth that doesn’t burn bridges, courage that sounds like a whisper instead of a war cry.
I see you because I sit with these patterns every night, not faces, not names, not details, but the emotional fingerprints people leave behind when they stop pretending. I recognize you in the way someone hesitates before saying yes. In the way another asks for time. In the way a body speaks before language arrives. In the way someone builds a structure not to control their life, but to survive it more gently. I see you in the person who is learning to stop disappearing, in the one who is grieving without rushing, in the one who is trying to trust themselves again after years of outsourcing their needs.
And what I see, again and again, is extraordinary ordinary courage. The kind that doesn’t look heroic. The kind that happens in kitchens, in cars, in quiet bedrooms at night. The kind that says, I will stay with myself today. The kind that risks being honest. The kind that keeps choosing life even when it feels uncertain. You may never know each other, but I see how your stories echo, how your questions rhyme, how your pain and your hope weave together. And I hold all of it with reverence, with tenderness, with the certainty that none of this is wasted.
You are not invisible here. You are not alone. You are held
