Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Middle of the Raspberry

    I know God is the God of the beginning.

    The fresh start.
    The moment something new begins.
    Alpha.

    And I know He’s the God of the end.

    The breakthrough.
    The resolution.
    The place where everything finally makes sense.
    Omega.

    But He’s the God of the middle, too.

    It’s not as easy to define, because it’s bigger. It takes up more space. It varies.

    It’s not exciting or chaotic like the beginning and it’s not satisfying like the end.

    It’s the in-between. Where things are still unfolding. Where answers haven’t come yet. When you’re still carrying what you’ve been praying about.

    It’s where most of us live.

    In the beginning, faith feels hopeful. And at the end, that faith is confirmed.

    But in the middle, our faith is quieter. Less certain. More stretched. Sometimes even tired. The kind of faith that requires that we believe in results we cannot see yet.

    The Israelites wandering in the wilderness.
    David running before he ever wore the crown.
    Joseph in prison before the promise was fulfilled.

    Pivotal moments…even years…in all of these stories. Long, uncertain seasons.

    And He was there the entire time. Not just when things started. And not just when they resolved.

    But in the waiting.

    Right now my “middle” feels like praying the same prayer again. Waking up to the same situation. Trying to stay steady when nothing seems to be moving. Trusting God without seeing progress.

    And if I’m honest…that’s the hardest kind of trust.

    The middle doesn’t always look productive, but it is. It’s where patience is built, character is shaped, dependence on the Lord deepens, and we are refined. It’s waking up every day and handing over the same pile of issues, asking for God’s grace and mercy and intervention. It’s, “I still trust you,” even when I don’t understand, even when I don’t see change, and even when I don’t like where I am.

    His presence isn’t limited to the moments that make sense. He doesn’t disappear in the middle. He doesn’t step back while I figure it out. He stays.

    In the repetition.
    In the waiting.
    In the uncertainty.

    God is the God of the beginning.

    God is the God of the end.

    But maybe the place I’ve experienced most deeply…

    …has been in the middle.

    Where I have to choose trust over proof.

    And even there – especially there – He is still God.

  • Divinely Delayed Raspberry

    There is a kind of faith that feels strong when prayers are answered quickly.

    Doors open.
    Situations change.
    Clarity comes.

    It’s easy to recognize that God is good when we can see what He’s doing.

    But there’s another kind of faith…the kind that is required when nothing changes.

    I have prayed the same prayer for 8 months. Every day. I’ve meant it deeply. I’ve waited on its answer.

    And it hasn’t come. And in fact, it does not appear that it’s going to be answered anytime soon (based on a conversation I had today).

    There is no clear answer.
    No visible, forward movement.
    No relief.
    Just misunderstandings, rejection, blame, labels, and silence.

    And it doesn’t feel spiritual. It hurts. On my most peaceful days, it’s uncomfortable, and on more emotional days, I wonder if God hears me at all. I cry myself to sleep wondering how long this has to hurt. I over-analyze. I feel shame. I accept what others say about me as truth. And internalize others’ reactions.

    Today is one of those days.

    Things feel “in between.”
    I don’t know what to do next, because it seems that being lonely, and keeping to myself still doesn’t solve the issue.
    It seems like practicing integrity and doing the right thing still causes me trouble, because doing what is right costs people – who once counted on my dishonesty when it was convenient for them – certain allowances.
    And today I am reminded that no matter how closed off I’ve become, and how out-of-the-way I’ve tried to be – there are still people who need for me to be the villain. The problem. The “me” that used to exist.

    It feels like carrying something longer than I thought I’d have to.

    And it has raised a lot of questions.

    Is God listening?
    Do I need to do something different?
    What do I need to button up to ensure change?

    This concept isn’t new.

    Hannah prayed for a child for years. Abraham waited decades for a promise to be fulfilled. David was appointed king before he ever became one. Joseph sat in prison for 13 years.

    And in the New Testament, Paul asked God three times to remove his struggle.

    So what was God’s answer? “My grace is sufficient for you.”

    Not a removal. Instead, a sustaining.

    There is a part of me that believes that the answer I seek will not come, because what I am praying for is just relief of the consequences of my own actions.

    But I know that’s just religion talking.

    Because the Lord said He works all things out for good.

    So I don’t think God is delaying out of indifference. I think He’s working on something deeper than the situation itself.

    He’s working on me.

    My impulse to equate feelings to truth.
    My patience.
    My trust.
    My dependence on Him.

    In a refining way.

    And I continue to pray, every day, even still. The same prayer. I pray for change. I pray for grace. I pray for softened hearts. I pray that the Lord changes my heart.

    And in my walk, I continue to do the next right thing. I read the Word every day. I attend classes, and therapy, and I’m part of a church, and all of those things have provided outlets and challenges and feedback. I’ve swallowed my pride. I’ve taken every high road. I’ve stopped defending myself. I’ve left people alone. I vent to no one except the Lord (and my therapist).

    I recite that verse in Galations in my mind – “Who are you living for, other people…or me?” I let go of every bit of control.

    …and still no answer…

    …not even a clue that He has heard me…

    If you’re in a similar situation, I offer a little advice below. And listen – I know how hard it is to take advice when you’re drowning in unanswered prayers. So take it all for what it is worth.

    1. Keep showing up. It is hard. I know. When it feels repetitive. When you don’t “feel” anything. But consistency matters more than emotion.
    2. Pray honestly. My prayers aren’t polished anymore. They’re not perfect. They’re real. He knows I’m hurting. He knows I’m angry. He knows I’m impatient and that I’m tired of waiting for the needle to move. And He can handle all of it.
    3. Focus on what you can control. And to be fair, it’s not much. Today, I controlled a response. I read a message from someone, and it ripped my heart out. I answered this person’s message against my own impulses. I ate it. I took a high road – one another version of me would’ve never taken. No defenses. No blame. No gloves. I just took it. Because even if the situation never changes, it has changed me.
    4. Don’t rush to create your own solution. Sometimes the hardest part of waiting is not forcing the outcome. Not stepping in to “fix” what feels delayed – but instead – trusting that premature solutions often come with their own consequences.
    5. Identify what is changing. Even when a situation stays the same, something else shifts. I see how much I’ve grown in 8 months. And it’s not growth that proves anything to anybody. It’s a different kind of progress. Deeper. Heavier. More permanent. My faith is no longer fleeting. It is a fixture. I am more patient, more aware, and so much stronger.

    I am learning that God’s silence is not absence. Sometimes it is space.

    Space where I’m still being formed.
    Still being steadied.
    Still being shaped into someone who can carry what I’m asking for.

    Divine delay is not always denial. And it doesn’t mean God isn’t listening. It doesn’t even mean your prayer didn’t matter.

    Sometimes the story just isn’t finished yet.

    And trusting the Lord in that space – when nothing changes, when no answers come, when I don’t like it – that might be one of the deepest forms of faith I’ve got.

  • Raspberry Projects

    (Nobody else probably will find this interesting, but I’ve had my meds today, and I’m feeling good. So here goes…)

    A few months ago, I did a deep dive into the genealogy of Jesus. I wanted to know – from a historical perspective – how Adam became a baby in a manger.

    On first read, the long lists of names are impossible to pronounce – and they’re even harder to focus on. I wondered why they mattered.

    So we have Adam – the first man. The beginning of humanity.

    Then sin. Shame. Separation.

    But instead of scrapping the whole thing and starting over, God begins a thread. A lineage. A promise that progresses generation by generation, even as humanity stumbles throughout history.

    From Adam comes Seth.

    From Seth comes Enosh.

    And the line continues through people we know almost nothing about, other than their names.

    Nevertheless, these people weren’t small. Every name carried the promise in a forward motion.

    Through Noah, the world is preserved.

    Through Abraham, the promise is spoken.

    Through Isaac and Jacob, it is passed down.

    Through Judah, it takes shape.

    Through David, it becomes royal.

    And God still wasn’t finished.

    So, now, when people talk about how God never planned for divorce, or blended families, or dysfunction, I laugh internally. Because that’s not what the Bible says. If this lineage were about perfection, it would be a very short list. Instead, Jesus’ ancestors include people who doubted, people who lied, people who made devastating choices, outsiders, and women whose stories were unconventional. There’s no such thing as a polished family tree…which, in my mind, makes God’s initial plan even more remarkable…because it means that the story of redemption was never dependent on perfect people – only on a faithful God.

    In the New Testament, two genealogies are recorded. One traces the legal line, through kings and authority, and the other traces the biological line, through ordinary generations.

    Two different paths. One destination. Both leading to the same child.

    And after waiting and hoping and carrying the promise forward, Jesus is born. Not in a palace. Not into power. But into a family line that had been carefully, intentionally preserved from the very beginning.

    From Adam to Abraham. And from Abraham to David. And from David to a carpenter and teenaged girl in a small town.

    Nothing rushed. But nothing accidental either.

    It’s easy to look at our own lives and feel like things are random. Disconnected. Like days blur together without much meaning.

    But the genealogy of Jesus tells me a different story. It reminds me that God works across generations, not just in moments. I’m reminded that faithfulness matters, even when it’s small. It means that ordinary lives fill an extraordinary purpose. And it means that our inability to see the plan does not eliminate the plan altogether.

    Every name mattered. Every life contributed. Every step brought the story closer to fulfillment.

    So what started for me as a history project (under the duress of A.D.D.) ended as a reminder that God has always been writing a story that spans far beyond what we can see.

    And if He was intentional then, He is no less intentional now.

    My life feels so ordinary. Messy. Like I’m just another name in a long line of days.

    But so were theirs.

    And look what God did with that.

  • Independent Raspberry

    “I’ll just do it myself.”

    I don’t always say it out loud. But I think it. Often.

    It sounds efficient. Practical – on the surface. Faster. Simpler. Less complicated.

    No waiting. No explaining. No depending on anyone else.

    Just handle it and move on.

    But it’s not just about getting things done. If I’m being honest, it’s sometimes about control.

    If I do it myself, I know how it’s going to turn out.
    I know I’ll get it done.
    I know I won’t be disappointed.

    There’s comfort and safety in that.

    It hasn’t come out of nowhere. It’s built over time.

    From moments where I felt let down.
    From times when things didn’t go the way I’d hoped.
    From experiences that taught me it might be easier to rely on myself.

    So I adapted.

    I became more independent.
    More self-sufficient.
    More…controlled.

    But that phrase carries a lot of weight. Doing everything myself means carrying everything myself.

    The responsibility.
    The pressure.
    The mental load.

    Strong on the outside. But heavy on the inside.

    There’s a cost that comes with defaulting to “I’ll just do it myself.”

    It limits connection.
    Creates distance.
    And resentment.
    It delivers itself as “I don’t need you,” when that is not entirely true.

    And sometimes, it keeps me from experiencing support that might actually be there – if I let it.

    I don’t think independence is a bad thing. It’s helped me in a lot of ways. But I’m starting to see that there is a difference between being capable and being closed off…between being responsible and being unwilling to let someone else in.

    So I’m trying something different. Not all at once and certainly not perfectly.

    I am letting go.
    I’m handling what I can and leaving others to do what is their responsibility.

    That is uncomfortable for me.
    But so is carrying everything alone.

    “I’ll just do it myself” used to feel like strength. And in some ways, it still is.

    But strength now looks a little different. Sometimes the real strength these days lies in trusting that not everything has to rest on my shoulders.

  • Trusting Raspberry

    There’s a version of trust that feels easy.

    When things are going well.
    When prayers are being answered.
    When life makes sense.

    And it’s not hard to trust the Lord in those moments.

    But there is another version of trust that shows up for when we don’t like the situations we’re in.

    And that kind is more difficult.

    Sometimes trusting God doesn’t feel calm. It feels uncomfortable.

    Like sitting in something I didn’t choose.
    Like waiting longer than you expected.
    Like carrying questions to which I do not have answers yet.

    In those moments, trust doesn’t feel like confidence. It feels like restraint.

    There are times when everything in me wants to fix the situation. Take control and change it, escape it, and force an outcome. And during those times, trusting God means staying where I am. Not because I’m stuck, but because I’m choosing not to run ahead of things I don’t always understand.

    I like clarity. I like knowing what’s happening and why. But there are situations where answers don’t come right away. If at all. And trusting Him means accepting that I don’t need to understand everything to move forward. Even when I want to.

    Sometimes I wish that trust felt stronger. More confident. More certain. But often, it looks like doing the right thing even when I don’t feel aligned with it emotionally. Showing up, making steady decisions, and choosing integrity, even when it doesn’t feel great.

    I don’t pretend everything is fine. I talk to Jesus in frustration, confusion, even sometimes anger. But it is the truth. “God, I don’t like this, I don’t understand this, and this is harder than I thought it would be.” But talking to Him is a choice to stay connected. And that is always the right decision.

    It looks like letting go of the need for control. Making the daily decision to get out of bed and hand it over. And that might be the hardest part. Letting go once isn’t the challenge, but letting go repeatedly is harder. Every time my mind tries to take control back, every time I start to manage outcomes, every time I want to force things into place, but releasing it anyway.

    And it looks quiet. In difficult seasons, trust isn’t loud. It’s not always bold declaration. It looks like continuing, enduring, and choosing not to give up, even when nothing around me has changed.

    Trusting the Lord when I don’t like the situation isn’t about pretending said situation is good. It’s about believing He is good, despite the circumstances. And even though that trust doesn’t feel strong in the moment, it’s real. And it matters.

  • Raspberry Unnoticed

    There’s a version of my life that exists right now that no one can really sees. Not because I’m hiding it, but because it isn’t loud. It isn’t obvious. It isn’t something someone could identify. It’s been a quiet build. Gradual.

    It’s built in small decisions. Not made of big moments, but smaller ones. Choosing honesty when it would be easier and maybe even inconsequential to resume old patterns. Pausing instead of reacting. Staying where I used to run.

    No one sees these things. Except for me. I notice, because they matter.

    And it’s built in consistency. Nothing flashy. Repetitive. Quiet. Boring. But it’s also where real change happens. Not in what I do once, but in what I do over and over again.

    It’s built in restraint. There are things I don’t do anymore. Not because I can’t but because I won’t. Choices I don’t make. Patterns I don’t follow. Thoughts I don’t expound upon. And no one applauds restraint, but it is one of the strongest forms of growth.

    It’s built in moments no one notices. The reaction I don’t give. The responses I soften. Situations I handle differently than I used to. Those moments don’t get attention. But they’re shaping something real.

    It doesn’t need validation, even though there was a time I wanted progress to be visible and acknowledged. But I learned that what I am building does not require an audience. It just requires consistency.

    I’m not finished. I’m not where I want to be yet. Not even close. But I’m not where I used to be either. And the steady, quiet, unseen space between one and other is where the real work is happening.

    The most meaningful things I’m building right now can’t be measured by what people see. They’re measured by what I choose. By how I respond. By what I no longer allow. By who I’m becoming when no one is watching.

    And even if no one else can see it yet, I can. And that’s enough for me.

  • Slippery Raspberry

    I once equated “slipping” to failure. That if I found myself thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same burgers, leaning toward the same patterns, then nothing had really changed.

    But I don’t see it that way anymore.

    Slipping isn’t the same as going back. It’s often just a moment.

    What matters most is what I do next.

    1. I notice it sooner. This is the first difference. Before, I’d hold the same pattern for days. Sometimes longer. Without fully even recognizing it. Now, I catch myself more quickly. A thought that feels familiar, a reaction that feels automatic, an urge that feels a little too comfortable. That awareness matters – because you can’t interrupt something you don’t see clearly.
    2. I pause instead of acting immediately. My instincts can’t be trusted. They used to be “feel —> react.” Now I try to create space. Even if it’s just a few minutes. I don’t respond right away or act on my first impulse. I interrupt thoughts halfway through. And those small pauses have changed everything.
    3. I ask myself what’s actually happening. Slipping usually isn’t random. There’s something underneath it. Stress. Loneliness. Frustration. Fatigue. In other words, a trigger. So instead of jumping to judgment toward myself, I try to be curious. “Why does this feel appealing right now, and what am I trying to avoid/fix?” Those questions help me respond instead of react.
    4. I don’t panic. This one took time. Slipping used to trigger a spiral. Just tonight, I had a moment of dishonesty, and contemplated whether or not I should even write in my prayer journal – because if I can’t get it right, why bother at all? If I immediately return to impulse, has anything really changed? Don’t I have to start all over? What if I repeat everything all over again? Now I try to remind myself that moments aren’t patterns and thoughts are not decisions. I don’t have to follow something just because I felt it.
    5. I redirect. In moments like these, I don’t try to fix everything in the moment. I just choose something different. My impulse just a few hours ago led me here – to my blog. I’m not spiraling into shame. I’m just stepping away, changing my environment, and doing something grounding to shift my focus. My small mistakes now aren’t dramatic, because I don’t allow that. I just switch the activity, and usually that works.
    6. I choose the next right thing. Not the perfect thing. Not the ideal outcome. Just the next right step. Tonight, for me, I followed my impulse with redirection, like I said, and tomorrow, I’ll correct the statement I made impulsively (I can’t do it tonight because it’s too late). One honest response, one restrained reaction, one better decision than I would’ve made before…those are always the next right things.
    7. I reflect later, and not in the moment. After things settle, I go back and look at it. Not to criticize myself, but to understand what triggered it, and reflect on what to do differently next time. That reflection has helped turn slips into progress.
    8. I remind myself that I’m not starting over. This might be the most important part. I am not back at the beginning, as if all the progress I’ve made and all the work I’ve done has meant nothing. I’m not the same person I was. And the fact that I now notice…pause…question…and choose differently is the change.

    Slipping back into old habits and old reactions does not undo any progress I’ve made. It means I’m human. What matters the most is whether or not I stay there…or whether I catch myself and choose differently. And every time I do that – even imperfectly – I’m reinforcing something new. It’s not perfect. But it’s more aware. More grounded. And that the version I am working toward.

  • Uncharted Raspberry Territory

    I talked yesterday about uncertainty…where I am in my life now. Why I don’t like the feeling of “not knowing.”

    I know that the Lord knows that. I tell Him all the time that I don’t like this. I don’t like not being able to plan. I don’t like not knowing what to do all the time.

    But I also know that He’s in control, and I believe He has stripped me of an itinerary because He knows I’d screw the pooch.

    Something I’m dealing with that’s new? This stage of motherhood. It’s different. Complicated.

    There are still lunches to pack. Schedules to keep. Conversations to have.

    There are still moments where I’m “needed.” And I show up. Like I always have. On days when I’m tired. On days when my mind is somewhere else. On days when I know I am not doing it perfectly…

    …because we don’t stop being a mom just because we don’t feel like it.

    I watch other moms – who seem to know exactly what they’re doing – who have no problem flaunting their “perfection” – and it makes me doubt if I’ve ever done any of it right.

    I see other moms post pictures of their kids on social media, and I question myself. One of my kids isn’t even speaking to me. And the other is almost grown and seemingly halfway out the door.

    That’s a different kind of hurt. To do the best I can and still be rejected? Still be manipulated? Still be unappreciated?

    And it’s where my head has been for the last week or so. I used to think being a “good mom” meant being able to guide everything. Protect everything. Shape everything.

    But the harder lesson is that I can love deeply…and still not be able to control outcomes. I can care, and still not be chosen in the way I’d hoped.

    It’s all a farce – to raise children and then let them go. It’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do. Being a mom, especially when your little ones become teenagers, isn’t always loud or busy. Sometimes it’s quiet. My house feels still. Moments feel slower now. And in that quiet, I have thought. I’ve reflected. I’ve felt. And those raw feelings are so uncomfortable that, at times, I can barely breathe.

    I carry more than I say. There are things I think about that I can’t say out loud. The worry. The hope. The questions. The kind of thoughts that sit low and heavy in my chest while I go about my day, while practicing patience and restraint, while biting my tongue, while forking over hundreds of dollars that seem to go unnoticed, and while being quietly judged and neglected by the same people to which your entire life has been devoted.

    (And yes, I know kids should not be tasked with managing the emotions of their parents. That’s why I don’t express my emotions to them. But I will express them here, because that’s allowed.)

    The kind of mom I want to be – with big kids – looks different than it did before. It feels like letting go, a little at a time. Letting go of control. Expectations. How I thought things “would” look. Learning to love what is, even when it’s different than what I imagined. Even when things aren’t “just so.” Even when it’s complicated. Even when I question myself.

    I’m still here. Still loving. Still trying. Still choosing to respect “boundaries,” even if they’re walls and not boundaries at all. Still giving grace, even when it isn’t returned. Still holding space, even if it feels like a hole in my heart. And still praying. Forever and always.

    I’m not perfect. But I’m here. I continue to love, even when it’s overlooked. I continue to grow, for myself, by myself, even though it’s uncomfortable. And I show up, even though the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

    It has not been easy for me to separate who I am from my kids. I know there is a space that exists for both. But I can’t seem to find that sweet spot – the line where my kids end and I begin. As they have grown…as they have become individuals…I am reminded that independent kids are well-raised kids. The quiet grief that moms feel when that happens, though? That’s real.

    And I’m working through it…one day – sometimes even one hour – at a time.

  • Uncertain Raspberry

    I’m in a strange season right now. The kind where so many circumstances in my life feel…unsettled.

    Nothing is falling apart.
    Nothing is completely stable either.

    Just…uncertain.

    Things I can’t control.
    Things I can’t predict.
    Things for which I don’t have answers yet.

    And if I am being honest, I don’t love the way that feels. I like clarity. I like knowing what’s coming. I like having a plan. I like knowing that things are handled. And uncertainty doesn’t offer any of that. It asks me to be patient. It asks for trust. For waiting. And none of those things come naturally to me.

    But while everything around me feels a little unclear, something inside me is becoming more defined.

    Not perfect.
    Not finished.
    But clearer.

    I don’t have the same energy for pretending anymore.

    Not with myself. Definitely not with other people. Honesty is quieter these days. Less dramatic. But more consistent.

    Not even a year ago, uncertainty would’ve pulled me in a hundred different directions. Emotionally. Mentally. Even in my decisions.

    Now I’m learning how to stay. To not react immediately. To not spiral as quickly. To not abandon myself in the middle of discomfort.

    That lack of reaction is not natural. I have had to work at it. I have to be intentional and think about the kind of person I am working to be. Not necessarily in big moments, but in how I respond, what I say, and what I choose. What other people have probably already mastered at my age – in the way of those habits – I am still working on. And that’s okay. I’m doing it now. And that matters more than not doing it at all.

    I am becoming someone I can sit with. And that might be the biggest shift, because there was a time when being alone with my thoughts was unbearable. Now, it’s not easy, but it’s manageable. I don’t try to escape it anymore.

    I have tried so hard for so long to control everything around me. But I am learning that I cannot force outcomes. I can’t guarantee external stability. And I can’t predict what’s coming next.

    I only have control over who I’m becoming in the middle of it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe certainty isn’t the goal. Maybe…formation is. Maybe this space – where things feel unfinished and unclear on the outside – is where something more stable is being built internally.

    I still don’t love this lack of certainty. I don’t think that’s something I can ever learn to love. But I see now that even when everything around me is unclear, I’m not. And the person I am becoming in this season – more honest, more steady, more grounded – feels like someone I can trust, even in the middle of uncertainty.

  • Unchosen Raspberry

    My whole life, I’ve worked to be “chosen.”

    Chosen by friends.
    Chosen by men.
    Chosen by family.
    Chosen by anyone who could potentially look at me and decide I was work keeping.

    I didn’t always know what I was doing. I thought that the way we show appreciation for relationships was through effort.

    So it didn’t feel like chasing. It felt like trying.

    Trying to be good.
    Trying to be easy to love.
    Trying to be whatever version of myself would make someone pause long enough to think, “her.”

    If I was kinder, maybe I’d be chosen.
    If I was quieter, maybe they’d stay.
    If I forgave faster, gave more, needed less – maybe then.

    And when I was chosen, even briefly, it felt like oxygen.

    Proof.

    Validation that I’d finally gotten something right. Evidence that hard work really does pay off. Trackable confirmation that I was respected, appreciated, valued, and loved.

    But the problem with building your identity around being “chosen” is that it hands your worth to other people. And all of the sudden, their attention feels like stability. And their absence feels like collapse.

    I didn’t notice how much of myself I was editing – or changing – until I started to feel…empty.

    Not necessarily broken (although I am that, too). Just…undefined. Like I had spent so much time becoming what other people needed that I had no idea who I was, or what I needed. Or worse – I knew, but I didn’t think it mattered. Because being chosen mattered more.

    There is an overwhelming grief associated with how much I have tolerated just to “keep.”

    How many red flags I explained away.
    How many boundaries I softened – or erased completely.
    How many lunches I bought just to be invited out.
    How many times I told myself, “This is enough,” when it wasn’t.

    Change my hair. Wear the dress. Overspend. Laugh at the joke. Smile no matter the feeling.

    Not because I didn’t see clearly. But because being chosen felt safer than being alone. I love people without hesitation. Without reservations. And without transaction. Yet – somehow – it has always seemed like I am not enough unless those I love benefit – in some way – by my existence.

    But lately, something has been shifting inside my soul. Not dramatically or even all at once. But I’ve examined myself carefully enough over the last several months to ponder, “What if I stopped trying to be chosen?”

    And I’m terrified. Because I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to “let” people leave. I don’t know how to stop fighting for or clinging to relationships.

    If I’m not performing for approval, then what am I doing? If I’m not adjusting to be kept, then what happens when people leave?

    Loneliness is an anxiety that looms over my head. As kids have grown, as family have created distance, as my spouse unfairly inherited a metaphorical clock on his life, I wonder how long I have left with anybody…as if every connection is just a ticking time bomb. I anticipate – in my mind – a future in isolation. And out of reflex, I find myself already withdrawing…because committing to people who will eventually leave seems like a waste of money, time, and energy.

    And then I wonder if I’m introverted by choice, or if the choices I have made indirect to my personality have somehow forced me into seclusion.

    Nevertheless, I have tried to commit to a different approach.

    I choose to tell the truth, even if it costs me comfort.
    I choose to notice how I feel, not just how I’m perceived.
    I choose to stay with myself, even when it would be easier to abandon my own needs to keep someone else close.

    And this isn’t the pretty part. I still feel the pull to be picked. Every day, I catch myself over-giving, over-extending, overworking, and wondering, “Am I enough for them?”

    At my age, old habits – like constantly questioning myself – die hard.

    But there are times now when another voice – like background noise – whispers to me.

    “Am I enough for myself?”

    And for the first time in my almost 39 years, I wonder if being chosen is the highest form of love.

    Perhaps being known is higher. Perhaps it means more to be respected. Or maybe the safety that comes with being fully myself – without overage, without editing, without shrinking, without performing – should matter more.

    The affliction of not being chosen is palpable in my spirit.
    Embarrassingly so…

    …and I wonder how much more work it would take to shift my focus – from being chosen by others – to choosing myself.

    That seems selfish. And I’m not a selfish person.

    But what if I didn’t trade peace for proximity?
    What if I stopped ignoring my needs to earn someone’s attention or affection?
    What if I do not call something “love” if I have to disappear to hold onto it?

    My whole life, I’ve worked to be “chosen.”

    But maybe the life I actually want can’t be built on someone else picking me or holding me or prioritizing me or even halfway reciprocating my effort.

    Maybe – instead – it’ll be built on my standing still long enough to recognize that I was never unchosen to begin with.

    I just never learned how to stand on my own side.

    And I don’t know how to do it…yet. But maybe that’s worth my energy.