“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?