Relearning How to Stay
I am learning to stay present
instead of preparing for loss…
I am learning how to stay.
Not physically; I’ve always known how to stay in places, responsibilities, crisis, and pain.
What I’m relearning is how to stay emotionally.
How to stay present.
How to stay open.
How to stay when something feels tender and kind instead of immediately preparing for it to vanish.
Because for most of my life, staying didn’t mean safety. It meant endurance. It meant holding still while I disappeared. It meant staying loyal to things that didn’t love me well.
So now, when goodness comes close — warmth, care, connection, affection — I don’t automatically relax into it.
I don’t sink into it like something trustworthy.
I don’t simply let it be good.
Instead… I watch it.
I analyze it.
I memorize tone shifts.
I replay words.
I look for what’s wrong, what’s missing, what might be about to turn.
I scan for danger even in moments that are gentle.
I wait for the change in voice.
I brace for the withdrawal.
I prepare myself for the moment love leaves the room, because nothing good has ever consistently stayed.
So I hover. I stay physically… but my heart holds distance. I don’t pull away entirely… I’m just afraid to lean in.
Afraid to trust goodness.
Afraid to believe it’s real.
Afraid to be wrong… again.
And that isn’t because I don’t want closeness. It’s because I’ve lived in relationships where closeness hurt. Where goodness shifted. Where safety evaporated.
So this is my work now: I am learning to notice when I start scanning instead of breathing.
To hear the part of me that whispers, “Don’t trust this. Don’t believe in it. Don’t let it matter.”
And instead of obeying that fear entirely… I am learning to stay in the moment anyway.
Just this moment.
Just this goodness.
Just this tenderness for as long as it is here.
Because here is the truth I hold — softly, but firmly:
Even if this goodness leaves…
Even if something beautiful turns into ache…
Even if tenderness becomes loss…
I will survive.
I’ve survived it before.
I know how to grieve.
I know how to rebuild myself.
And still — I do not want to live closed. I do not want to live armored. I do not want to abandon my own heart in the name of protection.
So I am learning to stay.
To stay present.
To stay brave.
To stay tender, even when it terrifies me.
Because I believe — even after everything — that there will be goodness that stays someday. I believe there will be love that doesn’t require me to earn it.
I believe there will be care that doesn’t vanish when I lean into it.
And at my core, beneath the scars and defenses and fear, I do believe I am worthy of being chosen.
Worthy of being cared for.
Worthy of being loved… and stayed for.
So today, this is my courage:
I stay.
Open. Trembling. Human.
Trusting that one day, goodness won’t feel like a risk…
it will feel like home.