“Living detached while craving connection is so hard.”

That one sentence captures exactly where I exist right now… somewhere between deep emotional hunger and practiced self-protection.

I crave connection like the very breath in my lungs… real, soul-level closeness.
The kind that quiets a restless heart.
The kind that wraps around your loneliness until you feel truly known.

And yet… I stay distant. Detached. Guarded.

Not because I want to,
but because it has become me.

Because where I once believed love would hold me, it hollowed me instead.

One moment, I was still her, the version of me who loved freely, gave endlessly, believed in the goodness of connection.

And then, I broke.

It felt like the skin of who I had always been just crumbled.
And suddenly, I was living in the shell of someone entirely new.

She’s gone.

And in her place is someone who doesn’t move through the world the same.
Still standing, still functioning…
but never quite whole.

The way I used to love, with depth, with intensity, with softness,
has dulled.

Not because I stopped wanting to love,
but because the very thing I crave… closeness…
is also the very thing that fractured me.

And that kind of fracture… it rewires everything.

My body lives in a constant hum of alert.
Every interaction feels loaded.
The instinct to run no longer pulls me toward someone, but away from everyone.

The places that once felt like safety, have dissolved into shadows.
Safety is no longer external.

It’s a carefully guarded place deep in my mind, built behind walls no one can crumble.

I wonder if people feel it when they’re near me. That quiet war.

The part of me that wants to collapse into their arms…
and the part already scanning for exits.

I wonder if they see how hard I’m trying,
trying to stay present,
trying to stay soft,
when every part of me wants to armor up.

Trying to seem open,
while hiding the most sacred parts of me behind layers even I no longer fully understand.

And still… oh God, how I long for connection.

The ache of wanting it,
while fearing it,
has become its own kind of torment.

These two truths,
they exist within me.
They ebb and flow like tides I can’t command.

The world feels unfamiliar now.
And to the world, I feel unfamiliar too.

This is just… where I am.

I don’t know how to navigate this version of myself.
The one who wants the very thing she’s learned to repel.

The one who aches for closeness, but stiffens in its presence.
The one who longs for softness, but doesn’t know where to set her armor down.

But I know this:
I have to give her a voice.

I have to meet her with the same grace I give others.
Let her exist.

Not in shame.
Not in confusion.
But in truth.

Maybe she just needs time to heal.
Maybe she just needs to be held.

So I’ll let her pause… for just a moment.
Let her feel the flickers of hope, however small.

The kind that whisper:
You were not built to be alone.

And I will try to believe that. And maybe…
for now… that’s enough.

Your Turn to Reflect

What parts of yourself have you silenced in order to feel safe, and what would it look like to meet them with compassion instead of fear?

Vulnerability has always felt like a paradox: something that can simultaneously break us down and build us up. Growing up, I believed strength meant hiding my pain, suppressing my emotions, and never revealing my true self. But life, with its relentless lessons, has shown me the profound healing that comes from embracing vulnerability.

Openness vs. Vulnerability

I’ve come to understand there’s a massive difference between openness and vulnerability.

Anyone who knows me would describe me as an open book; my life, struggles, and victories have always been on display for the world to see. Yet openness alone is more about transparency, while vulnerability goes deeper, requiring us to reveal our innermost emotions, fears, hopes, and desires. Vulnerability is courageous because it demands trust, intention, and acceptance of uncertainty; it means inviting others into the emotional core of who you truly are, fully aware you cannot control how they will respond.

For years, my inability to be vulnerable created a painful cycle. I would bottle everything up until one small trigger blew the lid off. Suddenly, every repressed emotion would erupt onto anyone nearby, leaving me confused, ashamed, and isolated. Each explosion reinforced the destructive belief that I was inherently flawed, undeserving of love, and destined for failure.

Facing Myself: A Journey Within

My journey with vulnerability began internally.

Over the past five years, my life has been profoundly impacted by a brain injury and the end of a significant relationship. These events, particularly being bedridden with my brain injury, forced me into a deeply introspective journey, compelling me to confront questions I’d long avoided: “Who am I beneath all the expectations and roles? Where is my value if all of that is gone?” This inward exploration began by acknowledging my own pain, my limitations, and feelings of helplessness, all truths I’d previously hidden even from myself.

As I began recovering, I needed to openly advocate for my needs and desires. I have limitations … I can’t help it … and I had to clearly communicate them. Expressing exactly what I could and couldn’t do, what I needed, and how I felt was frightening at first. Meeting someone new felt incredibly scary and embarrassing; I was deeply ashamed of how my injury had changed me and worried about how others would perceive me without my usual masks.

Many people disappeared from my life during this process, but those who stayed … my chosen family … provided unwavering support. The depths of myself I’d hidden for so long were finally being honored and cared for. Supported by their genuine love, I gradually found the courage to explore vulnerability in other areas of my life.

Living Vulnerably: A New Way Forward

Today, I intentionally choose to live as vulnerably as possible.

While full self-acceptance remains an ongoing journey, each moment of vulnerability with myself deepens my understanding and compassion for who I truly am. Gradually, the harmful cycle of bottling up emotions and exploding has been replaced by this profound cycle of vulnerability, acceptance, and compassion. By openly acknowledging my feelings, limitations, and needs, I’ve created space for genuine emotional freedom and authentic connections.

Living vulnerably has transformed how I interact with the world. It means showing up as my full self, even when it feels uncomfortable, allowing my emotions to be seen instead of suppressing them, voicing my needs instead of minimizing them, and letting others in instead of pushing them away. It means being honest when I’m struggling, asking for help when I need it, and trusting that the people who truly care about me will hold space for my truth.

But vulnerability isn’t just about personal expression, it also impacts how I engage with others. I’ve learned to not be derailed by others emotions, meeting people where they are without wanting to fix the uncomfortable, and to create space for real, raw and honest relationships. I no longer seek connection through performance or perfection but through presence, truth, and shared humanity.

This shift has been both liberating and terrifying. There are moments when vulnerability feels like an open wound, when the fear of rejection still lingers, when the instinct to armor up creeps back in. But I’ve come to realize that while vulnerability carries risk, it also holds the key to real belonging.

My relationships now feel deeper, built on a foundation of truth rather than fear or judgment. My sense of belonging has grown immensely because I no longer try to fit into spaces that require me to hide parts of myself. I allow myself to be seen exactly as I am: imperfect, evolving, yet beautifully human.

And while I’m still learning, still growing, still unlearning the instinct to hide, one thing is clear: living vulnerably is one of the most courageous and rewarding things I have ever done.

Today, I encourage you to begin your own journey toward vulnerability, starting gently with yourself. Embrace who you truly are without shame, and witness the powerful connections and healing vulnerability brings. Your authentic self is your greatest strength. 💛

Your Turn to Reflect

What parts of yourself have you been hiding, and what would it feel like to let them be seen? If you feel safe, share your thoughts below—or simply hold this truth close: You don’t have to be perfect to be worthy of love. You are enough exactly as you are.

A Life of Isolation

Growing up amidst continual trauma, I learned to survive, not to belong.

I always felt like an outsider, watching from the edges as everyone else moved through life effortlessly belonging. Perhaps being adopted added to this feeling … a quiet, persistent question of where I truly belong.

I longed for deep connections, to be truly seen and valued, to feel real to those around me. But no matter how much I yearned for it, connection always felt just out of reach. Over time, I began to believe that I didn’t belong anywhere, that there was no space for me to be fully myself.

This belief that I didn’t belong became my truth, and I lived as though it were the only reality.

The Cost of Loneliness

That belief shaped everything.

It dictated the relationships I had, the way I let people treat me, and the way I saw myself. I accepted friendships with people who only kept me around for what they could take from me. I allowed people to cross my boundaries, use me, and hurt me all because I thought that was the cost of being included.

If I wasn’t worthy of true connection, then at least I could be useful.

My friendships were built on imbalance. My relationships were built on betrayal. I surrounded myself with people who saw me as less than, and because I believed I was, I let them. Boyfriends cheated. Friends stole. And every day, I woke up with a hollow ache that told me I was alone, even when I wasn’t.

The weight of it all was unbearable. Drugs became my great escape. They dulled the loneliness, blurred the reality of my existence, and for a moment, I didn’t have to feel how deeply disconnected I was from the world around me. But even in that haze, the longing for real connection never disappeared.

Breaking the Cycle

Then, when I was 30, my mom died and something shifted. The code that had governed my entire existence began to crack. Being separated from her forced me to consider a possibility I had never allowed myself to believe: maybe, just maybe, what she had said about me wasn’t the full truth.

It was time to confront the demons of my mother.

Her vindictive nature hadn’t just fractured our relationship; it had created deep divides within our entire family. Her anger and desire for revenge at one time were directed at her sisters, and as a result, the aunts and uncles who had once been a constant presence in my life were suddenly erased. We were expected to act as if they were strangers, as if their love and presence had never mattered.

Through therapy, I began to understand that connection and belonging didn’t mean I have to remain tethered to people simply because I always had. It didn’t have to be rooted in blood.  And just because my biological family wasn’t a tangible option, that didn’t mean I was destined to be alone.

I had the chance to seek out where I truly belonged. The world was vast, filled with people who could become my tribe.

And so, I began my search.

Finding My Chosen Family

I can’t always explain to those who come from families with unconditional love why friendships mean as much to me as family … but they do.

Over the past 20 years, I have had the privilege of calling the most incredible people my friends. I have found people who see me for exactly who I am … all of me. The messy, the loud, the broken. The kind, the silly, the driven. Every part of me.

And each of them brings something into my life that I couldn’t live without.

They show up. Not out of obligation, but because they genuinely care. They’re at my kids’ games and baptisms, cheering just as loudly as if they were bound to us by blood. They carve out time for standing get-togethers, making sure we stay connected no matter how busy life gets. They champion every business venture I take on, celebrating my wins and encouraging me through the setbacks.

And when I suffered my brain injury, they were there. Driving me to appointments. Sitting beside me in the hardest moments. Believing in my recovery even when I struggled to believe in it myself. Unlike the past, where love often felt conditional, their support came without expectations, without judgment … only unwavering presence.

They love me, not because they have to, but because they choose to.

With every new step alongside my tribe, my heart has come to understand what it means to belong. What it means to be truly seen and still loved. I never worry that I am too much or unwanted with them. I know that we are equally valued in each other’s lives.

But this hasn’t always been easy.

Romantic relationships have often been strained by this bond. Most people understand the importance of family, but how do you explain that my friends are my family? That there isn’t some kind of hidden agenda? That I need them as much as you need your mom or brother.

My friends are my brothers, sisters, mothers & fathers. Our love is familial.

For some partners, this was too much to accept. Some relationships didn’t survive, because I could not … I would not … give up my support system, my lifeline, my chosen family.

The Power of Connection

Science and faith both affirm what we instinctively know: we are not meant to exist in isolation.

Studies show that human connection improves mental health, increases longevity, and strengthens resilience. The human brain is wired for belonging; social bonds reduce stress, regulate emotions, and even contribute to physical healing. We thrive when we are supported, seen, and valued within a community.

I have experienced this firsthand.

When I was at my lowest, disconnected from myself and the world, it was my friends who became my lifeline. The people who showed up for me, time and time again, through my darkest days. They helped me move, showed up in moments of crisis, and, more than that, wanted to spend time with me simply because they enjoyed my presence. They reminded me that I was worth something even when I couldn’t see it for myself. When I felt like giving up, it was their unwavering presence that pulled me back.

Biblically, connection is the very foundation of creation. We are called to love one another, to bear each other’s burdens, and to live in fellowship. Jesus himself modeled the power of community, surrounding himself with people who walked with him, supported him, and carried his message forward.

There is a reason we heal better together.

Studies have shown that people who have strong social connections recover from trauma more effectively, have lower rates of anxiety and depression, and even heal faster from physical illness. Love, encouragement, and belonging are not just emotional needs; they are biological and spiritual necessities.

Healing isn’t just about overcoming the past … it’s about discovering where we truly belong.

Together, We Heal

I used to think being strong meant handling everything on my own. That if I could just learn to not need anyone, I would be ok.

But the truth is, individually, we survive. Together, we thrive.

We heal in relationships, in the spaces where we are fully known and still fully loved. When we embrace true connection, we become stronger, not just as individuals, but as a collective. We lift each other. We carry each other. And we remind each other that we are never alone.

True connection is not just a luxury; it is essential.

And when we allow ourselves to step into spaces where love and belonging exist, we don’t just heal … we are transformed.

“When two givers indulge in a connection, it’s like magic. It’s alchemy. I water you, you water me. We never drain each other; we just grow.”

Your Turn to Reflect

What struggles have shaped the way you connect with others? Have you had to unlearn beliefs about love, friendship, or belonging? If you feel safe, share your thoughts below—or simply hold this truth close: Your past does not define your ability to belong. You are worthy of connection, of love, and of a place where you are seen and valued.

My faith and belief in God are as unconventional as my life itself.

My faith isn’t something neat or structured. It isn’t something I can package into a perfect explanation. But it is deeply real. It has been my anchor, my survival, the thread that has held me together when everything else unraveled.

What follows is my attempt to share what faith means to me and why I believe.

I don’t follow Jesus because I was raised to. I don’t cling to faith because I fear the alternative. My upbringing did not include Sunday school lessons or prayers before dinner. Both of my parents came from religious backgrounds, but because of their own experiences, they chose not to raise us within any belief structure. Today, I remain the only believer in my immediate family.

At 20 years old, I found myself pregnant with my first son. It was not planned, but never would I call it a mistake. I was a lost and lonely girl searching for love anywhere I could find it. That search led me to the dimly lit, cloud-filled rooms of drug use, where my own mind was muted, and the substances I took were free to consume me.

And then, in the middle of that haze, I found out I was pregnant.

By the grace of God, the desire for drugs disappeared in an instant. My mind cleared, my body sobered, and my heart became consumed with only one thing … this life growing inside me. I had never wanted children, never imagined myself as a mother, and had never considered how I would raise a child. But suddenly, nothing else mattered.

When my son was born, I experienced a love so overwhelming, so all-consuming, that it terrified me. I held him in my arms, his perfect little heart beating against my chest, and I knew, I could not fail him. I could not be the reason he ever felt the kind of pain I had carried my whole life. The weight of that realization crushed me. How could I protect him from the hurt I knew too well? How could I raise him when I still felt so lost?

At the time, I had just been hired at my first salon. It was obvious to anyone who met me that I was wandering, searching, untethered. The owner of the salon was a believer. Not the kind who preached at people, but the kind who lived his faith through love. His ministry wasn’t behind a pulpit; it was in the way he treated people, the way he made everyone feel seen. He made it his mission to bring the love of Jesus to anyone and everyone. He never forced, never judged, never pressured… only loved.

 He invited me to church more times than I could count, and for a long time, I resisted. I expected judgment, condemnation, rejection. But eventually, I went. Sitting in the very last row, ready to walk out at any moment, I braced myself for words that would feel foreign, harsh, unwelcoming.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, I heard words that spoke to my soul. Words I had always felt but never let myself believe. It wasn’t foreign. It wasn’t scary. It didn’t attack me like I had expected. It felt like home.

For the first time, I didn’t feel like an outsider looking in, I felt seen and known.

Because I wasn’t raised in church and had never opened a Bible before, I had no framework for what a believer was meant to be. I didn’t filter scripture through the lens of tradition or religious expectations. Everything I learned was new to me, and because of that, every word felt raw, unfiltered, and deeply personal.

As I read, the stories began to come to life. I had incredible people around me who never made me feel ignorant or unworthy. They answered my 3 AM phone calls when I had questions, sat with me as I wrestled with the hard parts, and never once made me feel like I had to believe a certain way to belong. In fact, it felt like they were learning alongside me, as if my wrestling with faith somehow deepened their own understanding.

That’s the thing about God.

His goodness is for everyone, always. It isn’t reserved for the perfect or the ones who seem to have it all figured out. It reaches into the most broken places, into the lives of those who feel unworthy, and reminds us that we have always been enough. No one is a mistake. Every part of us matters. And together, we are more magnificent than we ever could be alone.

The more I read, the more I saw a single, undeniable thread woven through the entire Bible …

LOVE.

Love that is patient, love that is relentless, love that chooses us even when we don’t choose ourselves. Love that does not waver when we fall short, but instead calls us to rise again. God’s unconditional, unwavering love for every single person on this planet was written on every page. I didn’t see the condemnation and wrath I had always heard about. I didn’t see a rigid set of rules meant to control people. What I saw were real, flawed human beings, walking through seasons of pain and joy, failure and redemption. And in every moment, through every high and low, there was God’s love.  Steady, unshaken, and always present.

I didn’t see hatred for those who lived differently. I didn’t see people being cast out for their imperfections. I didn’t see a God who demanded perfection in order for someone to matter. I saw broken people being loved, lifted up, and embraced exactly as they were. And in their stories, I saw pieces of myself. I saw how their struggles, their resilience, and their faith had been recorded not as rules to follow, but as a guide, one that was meant to remind me that I was never alone in my own journey.

When I reached the Gospels, Jesus came to life for me.

His words weren’t just teachings; they were a reflection of the kind of love I had always longed for. A love that did not demand perfection but instead welcomed me as I was, flaws and all. Until then, He had been more of a vague, distant figure. But reading about Him … His words, His actions, the way He moved through the world … something shifted inside me. Here was this man, born into poverty, with no status or privilege. A child, just like every other child, unique and full of purpose. He had no wealth, no power by the world’s standards, yet His presence and love changed everything. And the more I read, the more I realized, this was the love I my heart so desperately longed for,  the love I had always hoped existed.

People like me, the ones who felt damaged, the outliers, the ones who had lost themselves along the way, were the very ones Jesus sought out first. The broken, the hurting, the wandering souls weren’t overlooked or cast aside. They were seen. They were chosen. They were the ones He called to Himself, the ones He wrapped in love and healed. The only people He ever corrected were those who saw themselves as righteous, those who used religion as a weapon rather than a place of refuge.

He taught that each person is uniquely created, loved without condition, and designed for connection. We are not meant to live isolated, self-contained lives. We were created for connection, for community, for the kind of love that holds us together when we feel like falling apart. Our healing is not just for us, it ripples outward, touching the lives of those around us. Each of us holds something essential, something that contributes to the well-being of all. When one of us is hurting, we all feel it. When one of us is lifted, we all rise. We matter as individuals, but together, we are what makes us human.

That’s the very purpose of our existence … to love and to be loved. 

To me, this is what it means to be a follower of Christ. It is not about rules, appearances, or trying to fit into a religious mold. It is about LOVE. Unshaken, unconditional, and freely given. It is about seeing people as Jesus saw them, without judgment or condemnation, but with compassion and grace. It is about knowing that faith is not about figuring it all out, but about trusting that love is the answer.

This is what faith means to me. It is the quiet knowing that even in my worst moments, I am not forsaken. It is the assurance that grace is not just a word, but a reality that continues to reshape me every single day. It is the belief that no one is beyond redemption, that no one is unseen, that we are all part of something greater than ourselves. It is the knowing that even in the darkest moments, we are not alone. And that no matter how lost we may feel, love is always calling us home.

For so long, I operated on a radar tuned to recognize certain types of people and situations … ones that matched what I had always known. This wasn’t conscious; it was survival. The dynamics, the personalities, the chaos … it all felt familiar, even when it was unhealthy. But when you choose healing, that radar gets shut off. Suddenly, what was once familiar no longer feels desirable, yet the opposite is foreign. The people I used to be drawn to? I don’t want that anymore. But who do I seek instead? And how do I even find them when my entire way of navigating the world has been dismantled?

Feeling Like an Outsider in Your Own Life

You don’t realize how much you relied on that internal radar until it’s gone. Now, I walk through the world, observing but not always understanding. I see interactions, unspoken nuances, and social cues that seem effortless to others, yet I feel disconnected. I can’t read people the way I once could, and I don’t fully trust myself to navigate this new reality.

The spaces I once found comfort in now feel suffocating. The relationships I once fought for now feel misaligned. I used to mistake intensity for connection, unpredictability for passion. Now, I crave stability, but I don’t yet know how to recognize it.

Healing means unlearning patterns that were once my lifeline, and that unlearning can feel isolating. It is a disorienting paradox: knowing you no longer want what once felt safe, yet not knowing where your new home is.

The Loneliness of Healing

Healing is lonely.

Not because you are meant to be alone, but because stepping away from what is harmful often means walking into the unknown without company. You become acutely aware of how much of your life was built around things that no longer serve you. And the painful part? At first, you don’t know what to replace them with.

It’s tempting to return to the familiarity of old wounds, to surround yourself with the same people, even if they hurt you, to seek out the same relationships, even if they drain you. Because at least in that world, you knew how to exist.

But healing means resisting the pull of what once destroyed you, even when the alternative feels like floating in nothingness.

Praying for a New Reality

In my uncertainty, I turned to prayer. I asked God to show me the people in this world who do not seek to harm others. People who, before, I had never even noticed. 

He answered.

I began to see kindness in a stranger’s smile, connection in a genuine conversation, and the presence of people who are safe. But even with these new connections, I catch myself hesitating, second-guessing, scanning for what I might be missing below the surface.

Healing is not just about finding new people … it is about learning to believe that goodness exists without a hidden agenda. It is about allowing yourself to receive kindness without suspicion. It is about relearning what it means to be safe.

The Reality of Starting Over

Healing is not just about undoing the damage of the past, it is about learning how to live differently in the present. It is about rebuilding your instincts, trusting yourself in ways you never have before, and accepting that for a while, you might feel completely lost.

At times, this new reality may feel unnatural and overwhelming. The discomfort of unlearning old survival patterns and stepping into something unfamiliar can be disorienting. But you are not lost … you are in transition. You are between the life you once knew and the life you are creating, and while that space can feel like free-falling, it is proof that you are no longer stuck.

You know you don’t want to go back, and you know you can’t.

The version of yourself that tolerated harm, accepted pain as love, and clung to the familiar even when it hurt, that version of you is no longer in control. But without the past guiding you and without a fully formed vision of your future, you may feel like you are drifting without direction.

This is where you have to dig deep and have faith in the hope that is promised to us all.

You have to trust that even though this new reality feels uncomfortable now, one day, it will feel like home. The uncertainty, the loneliness, and the moments of doubt are not signs of failure … they are signs of growth. The life you are stepping into may feel foreign today, but with time, it will become familiar. What feels unnatural will one day feel safe. What feels like isolation will, one day, be filled with connection.

The only thing you can do is move forward, even if you stumble. Even if you take uncertain steps. Even if you have to rebuild yourself one small decision at a time. Because the only way to find your new home is to keep walking toward it.

A Reminder to Carry With You

• You are not lost; you are exploring new ground.
• The fear of the unknown does not mean you are in danger.
• The fact that you are here, choosing to navigate a new way of being, means you are healing.
• You don’t have to have all the answers to be moving in the right direction.

Healing is a series of small, uncertain steps into a future that is still unfolding. Keep walking.

Your Turn to Reflect

Healing is not easy, and the road forward can feel lonely and uncertain. But you are not alone in this journey. If this resonates with you, I invite you to reflect and share:

• What has been the hardest part of your healing journey?
• Have you ever felt lost while trying to move forward?
• What helps you keep walking even when the path is unclear?