photo: Rebecca Bauer

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Today marks three years of being single.

I’ve been noticing it all day.

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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.

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The years that followed weren’t empty.

They were full.

Just not in the way I was used to.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Warmth hasn’t changed.

But access is something I’m learning to be more intentional with.

To pace.
To allow over time.

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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.

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I didn’t linger.
I didn’t extend the interaction.
I didn’t follow the pull.

I just… let it be.

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A little while later, he came over to talk.

And we had a really nice conversation.

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It stayed with me.

Because I realized something I hadn’t quite put words to yet.

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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.

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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.

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I’ve always wanted to make a positive impact.

I just didn’t understand what that actually required.

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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.

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Learning about boundaries the hard way has been tough.

There’s no clean way to say that.

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But I think it’s changing the way I relate to people.

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I still feel that part of me that wants to reach people.

To light something up.

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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.

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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.

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I don’t think these past three years have been about shutting that part of me down.

If anything, they’ve been refining it.

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I can still be warm.
I can still connect.

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But I’m learning that not every moment of connection is an invitation.

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Three years in…

I’m starting to notice what’s changed.