And no, this doesn’t mean I’m closed off, cold, or incapable of connection. I’m actually very social. I’m friendly, warm, and I genuinely enjoy meeting new people. I’ll walk into a room, engage, listen, laugh, and connect. But I’ve always been someone who warms up rather than dives in headfirst.
What I’ve learned about myself is this: the faster someone attaches to me, whether it’s intense praise, instant closeness, or declarations of how “special” I am, the more uncomfortable I become. Not flattered. Not excited. Uncomfortable.
There’s something about immediate admiration or fast emotional attachment that doesn’t sit right with me. When someone decides very quickly that I’m their person, their best friend, or the answer they’ve been searching for, I don’t feel chosen, I feel rushed. And rushed decisions, in any area of my life, have never been my style.
Sure, there’s a moment at the beginning where the attention can feel good. Who wouldn’t enjoy being admired? But that feeling fades quickly for me, replaced by a quiet instinct that says: You don’t know me yet.
And that’s the part that matters.
I recently talked to someone for a short time. He was kind, attentive, and genuinely a good person. There was nothing “wrong” with him. But the pace, the whirlwind of emotion, intensity, and certainty, turned me off almost immediately. Not because he was bad, but because it was too fast to be real for me.
I believe certain things take time. I want to be known, not idealized. I want someone to see my moods, my boundaries, my routines, my flaws, and my independence before deciding I’m the one they’ve been waiting for. Anything else feels like someone falling in love with an idea of me rather than the person I actually am.
Maybe this is a defense mechanism. Maybe it’s wisdom earned through experience. Or maybe it’s simply self-awareness.
I know this much: you don’t truly know how you feel about someone in the beginning. You only know the version they present and the version of yourself you choose to show. Depth comes later. Reality comes later. And I prefer to make decisions when reality, not excitement, is leading.
I’m calculated in all areas of my life. I don’t make rash choices. I sit with things. I observe. I reflect. And yes, that same approach applies to relationships. For me, slow doesn’t mean disinterested. It means intentional.
So I wonder, how do others feel about this? Is moving slowly a flaw, or is it simply choosing substance over speed?
Because for me, real connection has never been about how fast it starts, but about how steady it lasts.
Many people would probably find this hard to believe, especially knowing that I’ve spent over 20 years in payroll, benefits, and various realms of accounting. I’ve built an entire adult career around numbers, systems, and structure. But at my core, I’ve always been a writer.
When I was a little girl, my dream wasn’t spreadsheets or reconciliations, it was words. I went to FIU and studied journalism, with a minor in marketing. I wanted to write for newspapers, to tell big stories, to be part of the news. Looking back now, and seeing where the news industry has gone, I can honestly say I’m not upset that life had other plans for me.
Life happened. I got married. I got divorced. I needed stability. Jobs required business degrees, finance, accounting, human resources, so I walked back into school, changed my major, and moved forward with a different path. And I won’t say I regret it. I genuinely enjoy what I do, especially now working more closely with benefits and having opportunities to support employees directly. I’m good at my job, and I take pride in that.
But I’d be lying if I said I never wonder. I wonder where life might have gone had I given writing the same dedication I gave my career. Writing has always been there, quietly. I’ve kept blogs for years, writing my thoughts, my stories, my challenges, my growth. Not for an audience. Most people don’t even know they exist. But somehow, writing has always helped me reflect, to look back and realize that I did survive, that I did overcome.
In a way, I’ve become a life blogger,not for money, not for likes, but for myself.
2025 has been a year of reflection. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I do what I do professionally to provide, to put food on the table, to be responsible. But something in me is asking for more, something creative, something meaningful. Not just for me, but for others too.
I want to help people who feel stuck. People who feel like they’re drowning. Sometimes I want to say, “Stand up, you’re in one foot of water. I promise you, it’s going to be okay.” I see people hiding behind excuses, and all I want to tell them is: you’ve got this. Everything you need to save yourself is already inside you.
I recently shared on LinkedIn about journaling and blogging, about how writing allows you to connect the dots backward and finally understand why certain things had to happen. That perspective changes everything.
So I’ve decided I’m going to write again. I’m going to share more.
For me, 2026 will be intentional. Not in the cliché, New Year’s resolution kind of way,but in a way where every day holds meaning. Every day will be written in gratitude, even through struggle, even through worry. And when my thoughts feel worthy of being shared, I’ll share them. The most interesting part? This isn’t about money. It never has been.
This is about finally giving life to the one part of me I’ve kept quiet for too long. Writing is the thing I love most, the thing I suppressed while I focused on survival and responsibility. And now, I finally know what I want to write about. I finally feel excited to share.
This next chapter isn’t about surviving anymore, it’s about living, with intention, and showing my children what it looks like to honor who you truly are.
Last week was a rough one for me. If you read my last blog, you know I had a moment of deep despair. A moment where I finally decided to surrender, not give up, but surrender. There’s a big difference. In my prayer, I asked God the questions I’ve carried quietly for so long: Why me? Why am I still alone? Why haven’t I lived the life I envisioned, one filled with adventure, meaningful friendships, joy? It’s not for lack of being a good person. So why?
In that prayer, something shifted. I realized I was tired, tired of asking those questions, tired of trying to manipulate life into giving me what I thought I should have. I was exhausted from carrying it all. And in that surrender, I realized something that broke me wide open: I’ve never truly lived for myself.
My entire adult life has been centered around my children. I became a single mom when they were just two and three years old, and I made the choice to put my life on hold to be present in every possible way. Even on weekends they weren’t with me, I’d turn down plans and stay close to home, just in case they needed me. I felt guilty doing things without them, so I simply didn’t. I didn’t go out. I didn’t travel. I paused me. And over time, as I continued saying “no” to friends and family, the invitations stopped coming.
Then, the day after my surrender prayer, something happened. I got into a minor argument with my son. I was upset because he had plans to go out of town again, yet another weekend away. He’s in college now, and most weekends, he’s gone. I felt hurt. I told him so.
And his response stopped me cold: “Mom, you need to let me live my life. I’m entitled to live my youth.”
He didn’t say it to hurt me. But it did hurt, because I realized, he was right. I’ve given my whole life so that he and his brother could live theirs. I’ve sacrificed willingly. And yet, in that moment, I saw the truth: they never asked me to. I chose that. I did it out of love, but I also clung to it because it became my identity.
That day, I cried, hard. But for the first time, I didn’t cry because I felt empty. I cried because I was being shown something: It’s time to let go. It’s okay now. My boys are 20 and 21. It’s okay to live again. It’s okay to make plans, to go out, to travel, to enjoy life. That doesn’t make me less of a mother. In fact, it’s what I need to be the best version of myself, for them and for me. It’s time I model what it looks like to love others without losing yourself in the process.
And just when I thought that was my big lesson for the week… the universe handed me another one.
This past weekend, I had a moment of weakness, a familiar one. I caught myself almost falling back into an old habit: filling the silence, the loneliness, the space… with something that no longer fits.
I dated someone for two years, a good man, kind and thoughtful, but deep down, I knew from early on that we weren’t right for each other. My journals don’t lie. Entry after entry, I wrote about how I felt unsettled. I stayed because I felt bad. Because he had no family and mine became his. Because guilt can be a powerful prison. I broke up with him multiple times, and each time, he took me back with hope in his heart. To him, I was everything he’d prayed for. And maybe he was settling, too, because truthfully, I never prioritized him. I didn’t give him the love he deserved.
We’ve been out of contact for seven or eight months now. I hadn’t thought about him much at all, until he posted a picture with a new woman on social media. He looked happy. And just like that, I felt something. Not love. Not regret. Just… triggered.
Right before that, he’d left a box of my things with my mom. And the timing? Let’s just say it wasn’t accidental. He knew my family followed him online. He wanted a reaction. And sadly, I gave him one. I even found myself debating whether to reach out. I thought: Maybe I’ll just suggest coffee, just to see if he still wants me. Because I know he would. He told me countless times—no one would ever replace me. But then…
I caught myself.
This was a test.
A test of my surrender. A test of whether I was really ready to stop repeating patterns that don’t serve me. A test of how I handle the waiting.
And that’s where my couch theory comes in.
I look at surrender like this:
It’s like having an old couch you’ve finally gotten rid of because you know it no longer fits. Maybe it didn’t match your decor. Maybe the energy was off. Maybe it was never the right couch in the first place. So you let it go. You sell it. It’s gone.
Then you go out and buy a brand-new couch, the perfect one. The one that suits your mood, your style, your room, your life. But it’s custom. You meet the person who’s going to build it, and you tell them you trust them. You give them a plan, show them exactly where the couch will sit, explain how it should feel in the space. “I trust you to build the perfect couch for this room,” you say. They nod with confidence and tell you it will take four to twelve weeks to build, before delivery.
So now what?
You have no couch.
Your choices:
Sit on the floor and wait patiently.
Go back and drag the old couch back in, the one you already decided didn’t work.
Hop on OfferUp and buy a temporary couch. Something cheap. Something fast. Something that doesn’t match your vision but fills the space, for now.
But we all know what happens: that quick fix ends up costing more in the long run. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t fit. And when your real couch arrives, now you’ve got to do the work of getting rid of that temporary one, again.
So here I am, waiting. Sitting on the floor, metaphorically speaking. Not recycling old couches. Not buying stand-ins out of loneliness. I’m holding out for what’s meant for me. For what fits.
Yes, it’s hard. Waiting always is. But this time, I know what I’m doing. I know what I deserve. I know that filling space just to feel full isn’t the answer. I’m not here for quick comforts anymore. I’m here for peace, alignment, and truth.
So no more recycled couches. No more temporary stand-ins. No more mistaking loneliness for love.
Today, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time — I took a day just for myself. Not a day off to run errands or help someone else. A real day for me.
I woke up early, went to the gym, packed some fruits and water, and headed straight to the beach. It’s Good Friday, so out of respect for my Catholic upbringing, I avoided playing any music. Still, I enjoyed the music that floated around me from others nearby. It might seem extreme to some, but honoring these traditions grounds me, and today, it helped set a reflective tone.
It turned into a day of deep self-reflection. I enjoyed the sunshine, the salty breeze, and even managed to get a nice tan. But I’ll be honest — there were moments when loneliness crept in. I fought hard to push those feelings aside, reminding myself that it’s okay to feel them but not to let them take over.
I found myself thinking a lot about the man I was recently dating — how he went from sweet messages saying he was thinking of me to complete silence. His excuse? “A lot on his plate.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that. It’s disappointing, but I recognize this as a season of growth. I’m trying to talk about these things, to face them, and learn from them rather than shut down.
Part of me wonders if I should love differently next time to protect myself — maybe be a little colder, a little more reserved. But that’s not who I am. Affection is part of me, and it says more about my heart than it does about how it’s received. I’m learning that.
The truth is, I crave a real connection. Sometimes, I wonder if it even exists or if the love I see others share is just a fantasy. Either way, I’m holding onto hope that one day I’ll find love that feels safe and steady. I refuse to let this small heartbreak send me spiraling the way it has in the past. I’m allowing myself to feel the sadness, but I’m not letting it consume me. It’s taking effort — real, heavy effort.
When I got home from the beach, my first instinct was to crawl into bed and sleep the feelings away. But instead, I chose myself again: I showered, dried my hair, got dressed, and took myself to the ale house for a glass of wine and an early dinner. Later, I might even change and hit the gym for another session. Who knows?
What matters is that I’m embracing this journey, not blaming myself for things beyond my control. I have to trust that God’s grace is at work — protecting me from something that might have broken me even more if I’d gotten in too deep. For that, I’m grateful.
Until next time, readers — thank you for walking through this with me.
This week, a realization hit me hard: I tend to love from a place of survival.
Every time I begin to date someone new, these old insecurities creep in, almost uninvited. I find myself overwhelmed by an intense fear of abandonment — a fear that I now recognize didn’t come from my parents (who were wonderful and loving). I didn’t grow up with “daddy issues” or anything like that. But something substantial happened to me when I was four years old — something I truly believe shaped me in ways I’m only now beginning to fully understand. That early experience planted deep, rooted insecurities that have followed me into adulthood.
Failed relationships, unexpected goodbyes, and emotional abandonment have all carved their marks on me. And now, I see how I often enter new relationships already bracing for the end — trying to fix things that aren’t even broken yet. I catch myself diving into deep conversations prematurely, handing over parts of my heart before someone has truly earned that intimacy. I realize that in trying to show my worth to others, I sometimes forget the worth I already carry within myself. I sell the person I am, desperately trying to prove that I deserve love — and in doing so, I unintentionally push people away.
It’s not to say that the ones who’ve left my life should have stayed. Honestly, I haven’t met anyone yet who truly deserved to. But I am at a place now where I no longer want to just survive relationships — I want to be at peace within myself.
At the start of this year, my uncle told me, “You cannot be afraid to love.” At the time, I laughed. I thought, Me? Afraid of love? Never. But a few encounters this year have humbled me. They made me realize that the fear of love isn’t about giving love; it’s about giving your heart away and fearing it will be shattered. It’s about wondering if simply being yourself is enough to be loved.
At the beginning of the year, I created a vision board centered around love. Naively, I thought maybe love would just show up — like magic. But it’s not that simple. In the past, when I made vision boards about money, career growth, or education, those things didn’t just fall into my lap either. They took work. They took going back to school, applying to new jobs, learning new skills. The vision board was the roadmap; the work was what made it real.
And love, I realize now, is no different.
If I want the kind of love I’ve envisioned — the kind my heart quietly longs for — I have to do the inner work. I have to heal the parts of me that still believe I’m not enough.
So here I am: April 17, 2025. Ready to heal. Ready to change.
In the spirit of reflection, I’ve turned off my social media and embraced quiet. It’s Holy Thursday, leading into Good Friday — a time when, in my Catholic faith, even music falls silent. This sacred silence has forced me to sit with my thoughts — no distractions, no noise. And after a week of practicing this stillness, something beautiful has happened: I can hear the birds again. I can finally hear myself again.
I want to do the work. I will do the work. I want to be happy — and I will be happy.
