photo: Rebecca Bauer
Today marks three years of being single.
I’ve been noticing it all day.
—
When I first stepped into this season, it wasn’t casual.
It came from a very clear conviction about how I wanted to live.
And that choice cost me a relationship I cared deeply about.
There wasn’t a big fight.
Just a quiet realization that we were no longer moving in the same direction.
It wasn’t a failure of love.
It was a mismatch in direction.
—
The years that followed weren’t empty.
They were full.
Just not in the way I was used to.
—
Some relationships fell away completely.
Some softened and came back in a different form.
Some stayed and deepened.
Some were new—meant for a season, or still unfolding.
I don’t think I realized how much was changing while it was happening.
Only that things felt… quieter.
—
There was a time in my life when I felt like I could walk into a room and light it up.
Not in a loud way.
Just presence.
Conversation came easily.
People responded.
I felt like a kind of center of gravity.
And I still miss that sometimes.
—
But I can see something now that I didn’t understand then.
My warmth and my access were intertwined.
If I connected with someone, I stayed open.
If there was energy, I followed it.
I didn’t really question it.
—
These past few years have been teaching me something I didn’t know I needed to learn.
How to separate those two things.
Warmth… and access.
—
Warmth hasn’t changed.
But access is something I’m learning to be more intentional with.
To pace.
To allow over time.
—
The other day, I walked into a restaurant and saw someone I’ve known for years sitting at the bar.
Easy to talk to. Familiar.
We greeted each other as I came in.
And then I kept moving.
—
I didn’t linger.
I didn’t extend the interaction.
I didn’t follow the pull.
I just… let it be.
—
A little while later, he came over to talk.
And we had a really nice conversation.
—
It stayed with me.
Because I realized something I hadn’t quite put words to yet.
—
I can still feel that pull.
I can still connect easily.
I just don’t have to build something out of it.
Not every moment of connection is an invitation.
Not everything I feel is mine to follow.
—
That’s new for me.
And if I’m honest, there’s a part of me that feels the loss of that.
Because it used to be easier.
Faster.
More immediate.
—
But what I’m finding now feels different.
Not as loud.
Not as constant.
But more grounded.
More chosen.
—
I’ve always wanted to make a positive impact.
I just didn’t understand what that actually required.
—
I can see now where I helped and hurt the same people.
Where connection was real… but confusing.
Where my warmth didn’t always come with clarity.
—
Learning about boundaries the hard way has been tough.
There’s no clean way to say that.
—
But I think it’s changing the way I relate to people.
—
I still feel that part of me that wants to reach people.
To light something up.
—
But it doesn’t feel the same as it used to.
It feels less tied to being in the room.
Less tied to chemistry or proximity.
More tied to what I notice.
What I’m willing to name.
How I show up.
—
To help people connect in a healthier way.
To help families see each other as allies instead of enemies.
To pay attention.
To be kind.
To tell the truth.
—
I don’t think these past three years have been about shutting that part of me down.
If anything, they’ve been refining it.
—
I can still be warm.
I can still connect.
—
But I’m learning that not every moment of connection is an invitation.
—
Three years in…
I’m starting to notice what’s changed.