Some nights carry a heaviness that no amount of success or self-love can lift. Not because life is broken, but because a very specific piece of it is missing. And that piece matters more than most people realize.
I’m content with what I’ve built. I’ve worked hard, raised two incredible sons, and created a life that makes sense on the outside. Financially, I’m stable. I’ve carved out a career that I enjoy, surrounded by good people. I’ve handled my responsibilities. I’ve shown up. I’ve done the work. And yet, despite all that, there’s an ache that lingers, because emotionally, romantically, intimately, I’m alone. And that absence has a way of coloring everything else.
It’s a unique kind of pain to have everything but love. To be the strong one, the capable one, the one who gets it done, but still come home to silence. It’s not the silence itself that hurts. It’s the realization that no one is thinking about you in the way you long to be thought of. That there’s no one eagerly waiting to see you. No one to share your day with. No one to plan a weekend or dream up a future.
People often say, “Just learn to love yourself. Enjoy your own company.” I have. I do. I’ve spent two decades showing up for myself. I go out to dinner alone. I treat myself well. I laugh. I lift myself when things feel heavy. But let’s be honest, being self-sufficient doesn’t erase the human desire for connection. I don’t want to be saved. I want to be seen. And I’ve never had that, not with a romantic partner.
I’ve never had someone to do life with. Never had a man who truly wanted to build something side by side. Never had someone say, “Let’s take that trip together,” and mean it. I’ve never traveled, not because I didn’t want to, but because I never had someone who wanted to experience that with me. That kind of companionship, that shared enthusiasm for life, has never found its way into my story.
I thought, by now, it would have. I thought once my boys were grown, once I had space for myself, that space would be filled by someone who understood me, someone with ambition, heart, family values, and faith. Someone steady. But here I am at 44, sitting with my dogs on a Friday night, leftovers in the fridge, no plans, and a heart that still wonders why that kind of love hasn’t come.
The other night, I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the kind of insomnia that comes from caffeine or stress. It was deeper. I laid there wide awake, fully aware that I wasn’t okay. And in that stillness, I did what I rarely do, I talked to God out loud.
I told Him I surrender.
Not because I’m giving up on love. But because I’m exhausted from trying to force it. Exhausted from constantly hoping today might be the day. I told Him I can’t carry the disappointment anymore. That I would rather trust His timing than keep torturing myself with expectations that never seem to be met.
Surrender, for me, isn’t about losing hope, it’s about trading it for faith. Letting go of control. Letting go of the timeline I imagined. And trying to find peace in what is, rather than what I thought should be.
Because I have done everything right. I’ve grown. I’ve healed. I’ve loved. I’ve given. I’ve created a beautiful life in so many ways. But without that connection, without that person to build and enjoy life with, it sometimes feels like all of it is missing a pulse. Like I have everything, but at the end of the day, it amounts to nothing… because there’s no one to share it with.
So tonight, I sit with the truth. I’m not bitter, but I’m not pretending anymore either. I want what I want. I deserve what I deserve. And if it’s in God’s plan, I’ll be ready to receive it. If not, I trust that my soul will carry this lesson into the next life, and maybe then, it will be my time to feel the kind of love that’s eluded me in this one.
Until then, I’ll keep showing up. Not for the hope of someone coming, but because I know my story matters, even in solitude. Because being alone doesn’t mean I’m not enough. It just means my heart still believes in something more. Quietly. Patiently. Faithfully.
Affirmation Of Visions 