emberrisen

Tag: longing

  • Feeling Everything at Once

    Feeling Everything at Once

    Lately it feels like all my emotions have decided to show up at the same time. Anger, sadness, fear, hope, exhaustion — all layered on top of each other until I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. Some days I feel like I’m seconds away from tears, even when nothing specific has happened. Other days I feel a kind of quiet rage, not loud or destructive, but sharp enough to remind me that something inside me is still hurting.

    It’s strange to feel so full and so empty at the same time.

    Like there’s so much in me that wants to come out — to be spoken, to be understood — but I don’t always know how to say it. And even when I do, I’m scared of being misunderstood. I want to be seen, but I’m afraid of what happens if someone actually looks closely. I want connection, but I’m afraid of exposure. It’s a tug‑of‑war inside my own chest.

    And layered under all of that is the pressure of everyday life — the feeling that I need to be more present, more engaged, more patient, more everything. I want to show up fully for my daughter, not just in the practical ways but in the emotional ones. I want her to feel me there. And at the same time, I’m trying to figure out how to build more stability for us, how to bring in more income, how to create a life that feels secure. It’s a lot to hold, and some days it feels like too much.

    I think part of what I’m feeling is grief — not just for what has happened, but for what didn’t. I’m grieving the life I once imagined for myself, the version of love I thought I would have, the future I believed was waiting for me. I’m grieving the softness I thought would fill my home, the partnership I thought would meet me, the steadiness I thought I’d grow into. And I’m scared sometimes that I’ll never have any of it, or that I won’t be able to create even a small piece of it.

    But underneath all of that fear, there is still a very real desire to show up in the world as the person I know myself to be in my quietest moments — kind, caring, generous, warm. Someone whose presence makes people feel seen and appreciated. Someone who leaves others feeling a little lighter, even if they don’t know why. I want to be that person more often. I want to live from that place instead of from the fear and the ache.

    And maybe the reason I want to give that feeling to others is because it’s the feeling I’m longing for myself. To be seen without having to perform. To be understood without having to explain. To be held without having to earn it. To be met with gentleness instead of judgment. To feel like I can exhale fully in someone’s presence.

    I don’t have answers yet. I don’t have a neat ending to this.

    But I do know this: feeling everything at once doesn’t mean I’m failing. It means I’m human. It means I’m healing. It means I’m still hoping, even when hope feels heavy.

    And maybe that’s enough for right now — to name it, to feel it, and to keep moving through it one breath at a time.

    🎧 Listen to the companion song: Hold Me Here

    If any part of this met you where you are, I share more reflections by email.

    Subscribe
  • The Part I’m Allowed to Have

    The Part I’m Allowed to Have

    I used to wonder whether wanting things for myself meant I loved my daughter less. Tonight, sitting in the dark of her room while she fights sleep, I’m realizing I’ve stepped into a new layer of that question.

    The wanting isn’t the problem anymore. I’ve made peace with that part — the part of me that dreams, reaches, imagines a fuller version of myself. I don’t feel guilty for wanting things that exist outside motherhood. I don’t feel like it threatens the love I have for her. That piece has settled.

    Now I’m wrestling with something different: What am I actually allowed to have?

    And maybe allowed isn’t the right word. It’s not about permission. It’s about impact. Some of what I want — some of what I need — might require time away from her. It might, someday, mean changes to her world. Not dramatic ones, not harmful ones, maybe not even noticeable ones. But changes all the same.

    And I’m struggling with that. Struggling with the idea that my becoming might shift her landscape.

    I know I’m not the first parent to sit in the dark and ask these questions. How much of myself am I allowed to claim without taking too much from her? How much impact on her is too much? And how much impact on myself is too much when I deny what I need?

    Can I have it all — the things that make me feel whole — while still being the mother she deserves? Can I have it now, or do I wait until she’s older? Is there a right answer, or do we all just wing it and pray we’re doing right by our children and ourselves?

    Tonight, I’m trying to believe that my longing and my love can coexist without competing. That I can grow without fading, and she can grow while watching me become the kind of woman I hope she someday feels free to be — whole, present, and still her own.

    🎧 Listen to the companion song on Suno

  • The Quiet Work of Belonging – Part I: The Strange Place Between Longing and Fear

    I’ve been sitting with a feeling lately that’s hard to explain — a kind of tension between wanting connection and being afraid of it. It’s strange to want something so deeply and still hesitate every time it gets close.

    I keep noticing how much I crave a sense of belonging. Not just friendships or familiar faces, but that feeling of being part of something — a community, a circle, a place where I fit without having to earn it. And yet, when opportunities for connection show up, I feel myself pull back. It’s almost automatic, like a reflex I didn’t consciously choose.

    I’ve always been good at making people feel comfortable. I know how to create warmth, how to make space for others, how to help them feel at ease. But when I look honestly at myself, I realize I rarely feel that same ease. I’m present, but guarded. Open, but only to a point. There’s always a part of me that stays tucked away, unsure if it’s safe to be fully seen.

    There’s a quiet fear underneath it — the fear that if people really saw me, they’d wonder why I was there at all. That old, familiar voice that whispers, “What is she even doing here?” It’s subtle, but it shapes more than I want to admit.

    I have people I care about. People I enjoy. People who matter to me. And still, there’s this lingering sense of disconnection, like I’m standing just outside the circle even when I’m invited in. I don’t know if it’s because I hold myself at arm’s length or because I never learned how to let myself be fully known. Maybe it’s both.

    Whatever the reason, I’ve been feeling the absence lately — not dramatically, just quietly. A kind of emptiness that shows up in the moments when I wish I felt more connected than I do.

    I don’t have answers yet. I’m just naming where I am. And maybe that’s the first step.

    Before I can understand what belonging might look like, I think I need to look more closely at the wall I keep between myself and other people — and that’s where I go next.

    [Return to the series overview →]

    If any part of this met you where you are, I share more reflections by email.

    Subscribe