Writings

listen, I am not naturally a person who leaves space. I am a person who wants to put my hands around things and call it care. I am a person who thinks love means proof, means check-ins, means a second "you good?" when the first one didn't come back shiny enough. But that morning, you were still sleeping, and the sun was a quiet trespasser spilling gold on the counter like it owned the place, and I practiced the smallest kind of restraint: I let you rest. Here's what startled me. The more I didn't poke at the silence, the more it softened into something warm. The more I didn't demand a response, the more your response found me anyway. You woke up later and said, "I slept so hard." Like you were surprised your body trusted the house. Like you didn't have to earn peace by explaining yourself. I didn't say, "I did that." I didn't take a bow. I just handed you coffee and watched your shoulders drop one notch closer to your actual life. The more I didn't reach for you like a life raft, the more you drifted closer because you could. The more I unclenched my timing, the more time showed up. The more I stopped trying to be answered, the more you spoke.

I was high for years High-performer. High-potential. Hits of yes that tuned my insides down to a whisper. The room with the highest ceiling, the chair closest to the window. Then the rush stopped rushing. The yeses still came, but they landed dull. And I noticed something: water never argues with gravity. It doesn't negotiate for higher. It moves toward what can hold it and becomes useful. The lowest part of the yard after rain is the part that gets the garden.