It’s past 11 pm. After my bedtime. I’m lying in bed. A wave of sadness tenderly washes over me. I follow it from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. My eyes are closed. My cheeks are wet. I’m crying. Silently. The tears flow so naturally, effortlessly. I almost didn’t notice them at first. They’re warm though. I understand that they’re here to offer comfort. I feel curious. I inhale deeply, and my body responds to this sudden shift with a gentle, quiet sob. 

My heart opens. I’m sitting on a small, green velvet couch, seated next to myself. I look over and see me crying, my face buried in my hands. I look to be the same age. And also not. I’m in my early thirties, and at the same time I’m five-months-old. I’m three, and seven, and 16, and 22. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask. With complete certainty, and without missing a beat, I reply, “People always leave.” I nod. The words are so clear, and I understand that what I really mean and can’t bear to say aloud—even to myself—is that “people always leave me.”

I go inside again. Deeper this time. I’m alone now, enveloped by a kind of darkness that feels like a warm hug. I need to think, and it’s quiet here. We haven’t even really been “left” yet, is my first thought. Why am I agonizing over something that hasn’t happened? He asked for “space.” He deserves this time to figure himself out. I can give him space, in the same way that he gave me space when I needed it. I think about the beauty of this opportunity to witness another’s growth, to be invited into another human’s self-discovery. I reflect on all the people in my life who choose to stay. I remind myself that adults get to choose how to be in relationship, and sometimes we choose to leave. Sometimes leaving means choosing ourselves. And we do, in fact, want everyone to have the freedom to choose for themselves, to choose themselves. And we don’t ever want to be where we’re not wanted, anyway. I know how full my life is; a fullness I’ve never experienced before. I have been gifted an abundance of love, offered freely and received with ease. So why does this moment still feel unbearable?

On the green couch, holding me. With care, and firmly enough so that I can be sure I’m not going anywhere. I rock us back and forth, slowly. I let myself cry. I think to myself, “This is the first time I’ve experienced an actual safe space.” I say, “I’m sorry that we’ve been left again. We are worth staying for,” and I know that words can never heal this wound that was created before language existed. I pull me in closer. Though my mind knows that people don’t always leave, I trust my body’s knowing that they do. I cry until we feel complete.

Back in my bed, I open my eyes. Whole again. I understand my tears in a new way. It’s not just this relationship or this individual or the possibility of a breakup. Because of the way that my life started, I know choosing to love is choosing to live in a persistent, steady state of grief. A state of pre-grieving. A space of feeling true delight and connection and love in each present moment, while also holding the inescapable truth that it will one day end.

I accept this. I have to accept this. Because to choose to love is to choose myself, and it’s no longer an option to choose any other way. I drift asleep, still holding me.