by Alma Calderón | Aug 28, 2026 | Recent Posts
“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they’re never weaknesses.”
– Brené Brown
Last week, I was told by my coworker that I am “dependable no matter what”. We were having a horrible day, but we were doing the best we could with our limited budget. We work with children from low-income families, so it’s especially difficult when we can’t afford to take trips, the weather ruins our plans, and, honestly, the entire day just sucked. I smiled as the comment was kind and part of me was proud that someone had put their trust in me.
What she did not realize was the fact that I was exhausted and anxious since I had to listen to painful experiences that afternoon that made our day “difficult.” Yet while something within me was pleading to take a break, I had remained focused.
When an individual perseveres in the face of challenging situations, people tend to refer to the person as “strong”. Initially, the description is comforting as it implies bravery, adulthood and dependability. Strength, however, with time can be a part of a role that other people expect you to always adhere to. Therefore, it may seem disappointing to them to realize that you are not coping well once they think that you are capable of doing it.
The pressure feels greater whilst studying social work since the profession demands us to be present when we are involved in painful conversations. Clients can discuss grief, trauma, poverty, violence, family conflict or systems that have failed them over and over again. They require listening and emotional protection especially when they are in an environment that seems to be unstable. Being able to compose yourself is important, but it’s equally important to remember you’re not emotionally invulnerable.
I am able to maintain proper boundaries and still be left feeling sad, angry, helpless or upset at the end of an interaction. However, I do not feel those reactions make me unprepared to practice or unable to assist another human being. They help me to remember that I am a human being and I am influenced by the realities I see. Nevertheless, I question whether being able to confess that the work is heavy makes me less competent than someone who doesn’t express those feelings.
This pressure is more difficult when you have to be responsible in many different aspects of life. As I tend to deal with what other people throw at me and stay calm, friends and family might think that I am coping very well. But I feel that this strength may eventually become not so much of a personal attribute but a performance for others.
On one of the most challenging days, my supervisor had a matter of urgency and went home early leaving me fully in charge. That left me the responsibility of confronting a parent about child abuse allegations that their children had mentioned earlier in the day. Externally, I composed myself and assured all the staff that I would be fine. Soon after, I stepped away from the kids when I received a call from my doctor saying they needed to move my appointment up because the doctor needs to talk to me sooner. No other information allowed to be given over the phone. I hung up and began to cry until a coworker saw me. Side note: there’s absolutely no privacy when you work with children because no locked doors are allowed! Anyway, I immediately dried my tears and continued doing my job.
I did not say a word since I thought responsible individuals ought to decrease the pressure on others, not increase it.
The experience demonstrated to me how pain can be concealed easily even to those who care. It also left me wondering why it is that seeking support may be more terrifying than preserving our image and being overburdened. It leaves me with the question: What are we protecting when we make sure that no one notices when we are in trouble? We may be guarding an image of ourselves which has become unsustainable.
Unspoken stresses do not fade away since I continue tasks and meet expectations. It tends to manifest itself as fatigue, loss of patience, inability to concentrate and being unable to be around others. Even small tasks may be burdensome after a number of stressful days. I can end up being silent among friends, forgetful of what I’ve been reading or even repeating conversations in my head whilst I should be sleeping.
At one point, I wanted to inform my supervisor that I was emotionally overwhelmed. However, I was reluctant to do so; I was scared of being perceived as unprepared and felt that seeking assistance would result in their loss of trust in me. So I kept working, ignoring what I felt.
I have started to learn that the meaning of strength is self-understanding and not silent suffering. Because a healthy strength entails limits, rest, contemplation, and the bravery to seek assistance before stress turns unhealthy.
However this understanding doesn’t mean that change comes quickly. I’m starting slow. I’m now prioritizing journaling and rest in order to help me process feelings that cannot be resolved at the moment. These practices do not minimize my responsibility or erase hard experiences. Instead, they assist me to return with more patience, clarity and emotional stability. Self-care is responsible practice; it influences the way I listen and react.
Perhaps strength is not the power to tote everything without feeling the strain. Perhaps it is realizing that the weight is too heavy and that multiple people can bear it when they work together. Professionalism and vulnerability can co-exist with emotions managed in a wise and reasonable manner. This lens helps my brain understand that assistance is not a sign of failure, but actually a responsible action.
I hear both praise and a warning when I recall that my coworker referred to me as dependable. I cherish the trait of reliability and I would like to be perceived as being stable when times are hard. But reliability must not entail self-abandonment or hiding one’s emotional pain. Awareness of our limitations can help us to make care more sustainable, authentic, and caring. There are times when the wisest thing that we can do is to admit that we were not meant to do it all by ourselves.
by Amy Meyers | Aug 6, 2026 | Recent Posts
“Perhaps that is why the people we love most can hurt us the most. They matter. They have access to the places in us that others never reach.”
-Amy Meyers
The Uncomfortable Question: Why Do We Hurt the Ones Closest to Us?
I’ve found myself thinking about a question that feels both uncomfortable and familiar: Why is it that we sometimes say or do things to the people we love that we would never say or do to anyone else?
I know I’ve done this. I’ve been more patient with strangers, colleagues, or acquaintances than I’ve been with the people closest to me. I’ve said things to family members that I would never have said to a friend. And afterward, I’ve wondered: Why did that come out of me? Why did the people I love most sometimes receive the version of me that was less patient, less thoughtful, and less in control?
Why is that?
Why We Feel Safe Enough to Reveal Our Least Defended Selves
Perhaps it’s because our closest relationships often feel the safest. Feeling safe enough to reveal our more vulnerable selves helps explain why this happens. It doesn’t justify it. Love should create safety, not permission to wound.
Yet the people we trust most often become the people with whom we stop managing our emotions as carefully. Is it easier to reveal the most difficult parts of ourselves to those we believe are less likely to reject or abandon us? If so, that doesn’t make it fair. In many ways, those we love most are sometimes the ones who see the parts of us that we work hardest to hide from others.
When I think about the idea of safety, I think about how it allows parts of ourselves that are usually controlled or contained to emerge. This isn’t a conscious act. We don’t think to ourselves, “I feel safe with my parent, sibling, or partner, so I’m going to let my emotions take over.” Rather, I believe we often react most strongly with the people from whom we need the most.
Attachment, Expectations, and Why Loved Ones Affect Us More Deeply
According to attachment theory, the relationships that matter most are often the ones that activate us the most. I’m not referring to displacing our frustration onto someone who had nothing to do with the situation. I’m talking about the raw vulnerability that comes with intense feelings when someone close to us disappoints us or when we feel they “should” understand.
Often, we become upset, angry, or overwhelmed when our expectations of others aren’t being met. If a stranger disappoints us, we may be able to shrug it off more easily. If a loved one disappoints us, the emotional reaction can be much stronger because so much more is at stake. The intensity of our reactions often reflects the importance of the relationship, not simply the severity of the event.
The closer someone is to us, the more we expect. We expect them to understand us without explanation, notice our needs, forgive us, know what we mean (sometimes without us having to say it), and remain loyal. These higher expectations create more opportunities for disappointment.
When Love Makes Us Forget Someone Else Is Separate From Us
One of the foundations of a healthy relationship is being able to see the other person as separate from us. But when we are emotionally activated, we often lose sight of that. Instead, we begin to believe: “If you loved me, you’d already know.”; “You shouldn’t have to be told.”; “Why don’t you understand?”
Often, when we react in ways we later regret, it isn’t because we want to hurt someone. We may be emotionally overwhelmed and unable to access the more thoughtful part of ourselves in that moment. We feel “thrown off.” Our emotions feel bigger than our ability to manage them. We don’t know what to do with what we are feeling, and our reactions become stronger than the situation requires.
The Patterns We Learn in Our Families Follow Us Into Relationships
If you notice this pattern in your adult relationships, it may be connected to patterns you learned in your family of origin. We learn early lessons about emotions, conflict, closeness, and repair. Family members often develop roles that become familiar over time. Someone withdraws. Someone becomes the person who is blamed. Someone rescues. Someone becomes defensive. These patterns can follow us into adult relationships unless we become aware of them.
Most of us don’t like to feel vulnerable. We all have parts of ourselves we would rather not show: insecurity, envy, fear, shame, dependency, anger. With strangers, we often keep those parts hidden. With loved ones, they can emerge more easily.
Sometimes intimacy means another person meets our most authentic self. Sometimes it means they meet the parts of ourselves that are the least defended.
People often assume that loving someone means communication should become easier. In reality, the more vulnerable the relationship, the stronger our defenses can become. We criticize rather than admitting we are hurt. We become angry instead of acknowledging fear. We withdraw instead of risking rejection. These reactions are often attempts to protect ourselves from pain, but they can create pain for the very people we are trying to stay connected to.
Conflict Is Inevitable – Repair Is What Strengthens Relationships
I think it is impossible to never hurt the people we love. No relationship is without conflict, and I believe relationships without any conflict are not necessarily healthier. Sometimes the absence of conflict means feelings are being pushed aside rather than addressed. Eventually, those feelings may emerge in other ways—through resentment, distance, or emotional disconnection.
Relationships grow stronger through repair. Through communication. Through honesty. And yes, even through confrontation.
Many people fear confrontation not because conflict itself is harmful, but because many of us have experienced confrontation delivered in ways that felt harsh, blaming, or attacking. But confrontation does not have to be mean or destructive. It can be gentle and clear. It can sound like: “I want to talk about something that happened because I care about our relationship.”
I’ve talked more about this idea of healthy confrontation in a short podcast episode, because learning how to have difficult conversations is an important part of maintaining meaningful relationships.
Love Requires Responsibility, Awareness, and the Courage to Return
Some of the most meaningful conversations in my own relationships have evolved out of conflict. They were not easy. There was fear that the relationship might be permanently damaged, and there was discomfort in facing truths I needed to hear. But I started with: “I don’t like how I handled that. Can we talk about it?”
Through those conversations, I became more aware that my intention and my impact were not always the same. I may not have intended to hurt someone, but that did not erase the experience they had. I became more attuned to how I could express my thoughts and feelings in ways that were more honest, compassionate, and less hurtful.
The goal is not perfection. None of us will respond perfectly every time. The goal is awareness, the ability to recognize when our emotions have taken over, to take responsibility for our actions, and to be willing to repair when we cause harm.
Love is not measured by whether we avoid hurting one another. It is measured by our willingness to return, take responsibility, and rebuild the trust that allows us to feel safe in the first place.
by Amy Meyers | Jul 22, 2026 | Recent Posts
“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
-Viktor Frankl
I am a rare gem. I listen. I am empathic. I’m inquisitive without being intrusive. I have a sense of humor. I have much to offer. These abilities have created a lot of disappointment in others who don’t know how to listen when needed: wanting folks to meet me where I’m at, the way I do for them. I’m the type of person who has always been more of a listener than a talker. And that serves me quite well as a therapist; or perhaps that is in part what led me to be a therapist. Personally, I choose very carefully what I share and with whom. However, when I have established a close relationship, the person will know all of me: my personal experiences, thoughts, and feelings. I’m a deep thinker and a deep conversationalist. And I’ve gotten very comfortable expressing myself. However, I haven’t always – and still don’t often – get back what I offer to others. We all want to be emotionally held: we want to feel we have someone’s undivided attention, someone attuned to us, and someone who is right there with us. We don’t want to be told “it will get better” or “it could be worse,” or to hear your story in this moment. We don’t want to be advised what to do (in some cases). We want you in the trenches with us. We want to feel you are on our side; we want your empathy. We want your ear. For some of us, offering this space comes naturally. Being in the helping professions and the education we receive helps us to develop this ability even further. If you have this ability, you, too, are a rare gem. And I’m sure you are appreciated. But how do we receive this in return?
Disappointment bears a heavy weight. We are invested in people, especially our friends and loved ones. The emotional letdown drains us and leaves us feeling depleted and even depressed. And lonely. Being consistently disappointed also calls into question our worth: If someone really cared or really loved us, they would be who we needed them to be. Feeling chronic disappointment in others requires grieving: grieving the relationship you don’t have and one you wish you had. You are entitled to emotional support. So, do we accept people’s limitations, or do we try to get them to be what we need?
You can let folks know what you need. It may not come naturally to them, but they may have the capacity to provide it if they are coached. Perhaps we only need one person with this capacity. And accept that as enough. Or maybe you need to expand or change your social circle and find that person who can offer you more.
I have done all of that. And I have worked hard to accept people for what they do provide. But the ultimate freedom has been shifting my lens from focusing on people’s limitations to realizing my specialness. It has made me value my worth and allowed me to stop expecting, searching for, and being disappointed in what I may not be getting. This has helped neutralize my upset and resentment. Recognizing that I possess strengths others may not have has become a source of empowerment rather than a source of frustration. I don’t know if I can convey the life-changing aspect of this stance. I highly suggest giving it a go.
by Alma Calderón | Jul 15, 2026 | Recent Posts
“Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals.” – Brené Brown
There’s a saying in social work that is so common and maybe you’ve heard it too—maybe even more than once:
“You have to disconnect when you leave work. That’s the only way you’ll survive in this field.”
I’ve heard this from professors, from supervisors, from other social workers who’ve been doing this for decades. And I get it. I really do. The message behind it is important: If you carry everyone else’s pain home with you, you will destroy yourself. You need boundaries. You need space to breathe. You need to protect your own mental health.
But still – every time I hear the word “disconnect,” it lands wrong. It feels cold. Mechanical. Almost like it’s asking me to shut off a part of myself. And honestly, that’s never been who I am. I feel things. Deeply. Even before I chose this profession, I was always someone who absorbed other people’s energy. Who felt anxious when a loved one was anxious. Who cried when someone else cried – even if I didn’t fully understand what was wrong.
Now, as a social worker in training, that trait is both a strength and a challenge. It allows me to be present, to listen closely, to offer genuine empathy. But it also means that after a long day of hearing hard things – stories of trauma, grief, violence, injustice – I sometimes carry those stories home with me, like invisible weights I can’t shake off.
And that’s the part people warn you about. That’s what they mean when they say disconnect. But here’s where I struggle: I don’t want to become someone who can just listen to someone else’s pain and then shrug it off by the time I reach my front door. I don’t want to be numb. I don’t want to lose the part of me that feels. Because that’s the part of me that led me here in the first place.
Still, I understand the fear behind not drawing that line. This work can get to you. It can make the world feel like a dark place, especially when you’re exposed to so many of its cracks. There have been days where I’ve walked out of a session or a group and thought: How does anyone keep going? How do people survive so much pain? And how do I hold it without letting it harden me?
Because that’s the other piece of this – when you hear so many stories of injustice, of cruelty, of systems failing again and again, it gets easy to spiral into hopelessness. You start to feel like maybe things don’t change. That maybe the world is just broken. That maybe we’re just putting Band-Aids on bullet wounds.
That’s when I know I need to check in with myself.
What I’ve come to realize is that “disconnecting” doesn’t necessarily mean not caring. It doesn’t have to mean switching off your empathy like a light switch when you get home. Maybe what people actually mean is re-centering. Grounding. Coming back to yourself after you’ve spent the day holding space for others.
It’s the difference between saying, “I’m not going to feel this,” versus saying, “I am feeling this, but I’m going to tend to it.”
Because yes, this work can break your heart. But it can also teach you about resilience in ways that nothing else does. I’ve seen clients who have been through unthinkable things and still show up, still try, still hope. That’s what keeps me going. That’s what reminds me that even in the darkest moments, people still find light.
But we can’t hold their pain and our own without tending to ourselves in real, deliberate ways. That’s where the idea of integration comes in – not disconnecting, but creating a ritual of return. For me, that might mean journaling after a hard day. Or talking to someone I trust – not about the details of the session, but about the feeling it left me with. Sometimes it means lighting a candle and sitting with my thoughts in silence. Sometimes it means blasting music and dancing around like a maniac just to shake the heaviness out of my body.
And sometimes, if I’m honest, it means crying. That’s okay too.
We are not therapists, counselors, advocates, or caseworkers in a vacuum. We’re people. And while we’re trained to understand transference and countertransference, and how our own history shapes our reactions, the reality is that this job is deeply relational. We are affected because we connect. That’s the whole point.
In my last blog post – When Work Hits Home: Identifying with the Client – I wrote about what happens when your clients’ experiences hit too close to your own. I shared how difficult it’s been to work with immigrant families as a Latina woman while deportations in the U.S. continue to rise, and how that work doesn’t just stay in the office – it walks home with me. It lives in the same room as my personal fears and my reality.
What I didn’t say then, but what I’ll say now, is this: I don’t think we’re meant to carry it all alone. We need supervision, yes. But we also need community. We need spaces where we can say “I’m not okay” and not be seen as weak. We need to normalize the fact that sitting with someone else’s trauma changes you. That sometimes it opens your heart, and sometimes it wrecks you a little. That both are true.
What I’m really trying to avoid is becoming someone who stops feeling. I don’t want to lose my softness. I don’t want to get so good at creating emotional distance that I forget what it means to actually care – really, fully care.
Maybe the real question isn’t really “How do I disconnect?” but rather “How do I stay connected without feeling overwhelmed?” How can I keep my heart open while still protecting it from getting hurt every time I come across something painful?
I won’t act like I have all the answers figured out; I’m still on this journey. But here’s what I’ve come to understand:
I don’t want to shut myself off just to fit into a “professional” mold.
I don’t want to become numb or cynical.
I don’t want to lose faith in hope – or in people.
What I truly want is to keep showing up with compassion, to set strong boundaries, and to allow space for grace – for others and for myself.I want to stay emotionally present without burning myself out. And I want to keep reminding myself (and others) that this work is tough, and it’s okay to admit that.
So no, I’m not going to disconnect. Not in the way people mean. But I am going to care for the parts of me that get tired. I’m going to keep finding ways to come back to myself after the storm. And I’m going to keep believing that staying tender in a world like this is one of the bravest things we can do.
Amy’s response to “How Do You Care Without Carrying It All”
I’m not sure that anyone wants us/you to disconnect completely as in not feeling with the client; not empathizing, being “cold” or not caring. Yes, we are human! And we need to allow ourselves more room to be so, even when with our clients. It’s ok to cry with our clients (as long as you’re still in control of your emotions). It’s ok to get frustrated. It’s ok to use yourself to help others mend and that may look different from client to client. It’s also ok to let it go after you meet with the client. That doesn’t mean you don’t care. And that becomes easier in time, and with more experience.
We also have to self-protect as a form of self-preservation and subsequently in the service to others. I often feel like we become so conditioned to hardship that we don’t react anymore. For example, it seems if you watch local news all you hear about is the baby who fell out of the apartment window; the family who lost their home to a fire; the boy who accidentally shot his brother. And we gasp in horror for a moment and carry on as usual, maybe even starting to prepare dinner. Are we cold? Are we not caring? We are self-protective. This applies to world news as well – there are really horrific devastating global crises. We’re seeing raw footage of war, climate disasters, and injustices… daily. And yet, we must go on. Some of us refuse to watch the news; others watch it and get depressed; and others feel, learn and act because of it. It’s human nature. We all have different mechanisms to self-protect.
I do believe in building community. I do believe in finding support. I don’t believe it’s weak to show your feelings – it’s actually quite strong. I don’t think we should equate disconnection with not caring and I believe there is a roomy spectrum between not caring and not always feeling. What we learn in this field is to be present. In the moment. And then store the feelings away so you can live your life. We aren’t in the business of sacrificing ourselves for the good of others, though it can certainly feel that way at the beginning!
by Amy Meyers | Apr 28, 2026 | Recent Posts
“The hours we spend with ourselves are the foundation of every true friendship; solitude is not absence, but preparation.” – May Sarton
We are living in a culture of loneliness. In fact, it is now referred to as the epidemic of loneliness experienced by approximately 80% of Americans. The number is staggering. Apparently, this began in the 2010’s and was certainly exacerbated by the isolation created by COVID-19. Even our Surgeon General has warned that loneliness can affect physical, mental and societal health. Gen Z is considered the loneliest of generations due to an increased reliance on social media. I deplore social media in some respects due to its propensity for competition for a better life, the proclivity for dis/misinformation, online bullying, and the breeding of an inability to communicate and connect. But that’s probably another blog. However, the response to loneliness seems to be an immersion in social media which ironically creates a false sense of kinship while avoiding true connection or as an attempt to resolve the feeling of loneliness. Another result of the access to social media either creates or rectifies an inability to be alone with oneself. The ability to be with one’s own company proves challenging, whether it’s in a doctor’s waiting room, public transportation, having a meal (sometimes even when with another person) or being at home. Just pick up your phone.
I consider myself to have the freedom to be alone and range from enjoying it, soliciting it, embracing it, or on some days, tolerating it. How about you? Do you seek it out? Do you actively enjoy it or simply accept it? Does it make you depressed? Do you need to be active most of the time? Do you want to be engaged with others most of the time? Perhaps there is a difference as to when it feels like a choice vs. imposed (ie: no one is available). When the latter occurs, I work towards accepting it and leaning into it.
One-night last week I was pleasantly aware of just how much I was enjoying some alone time in a way I may not have experienced before. What created this, I wondered? I craved it. After an extremely busy, non-stop period of work and personal obligations which rendered me both exhausted and surrounded by people all the time, I decided to take the East River ferry in Manhattan during daylight and return from the seaport at nighttime with city lights abound. The breeze on the ferry was delightful. I took a walk along the river and found myself seated on a wooden lounge chair, next to a couple. Only they didn’t seem like a couple. The woman had on an engagement ring, though the vibe between them was undetectable; it could have been a first date, a deep friendship, a looming marriage – somehow I couldn’t capture it. I was having fun trying to figure it out. They were happy to engage in conversation with me when I lightheartedly asked them about the nature of their relationship. Bold? Perhaps. Intrusive? Maybe. But I tend to have a style that works, she said in defense. I pride myself on my ability as a therapist to read people well, but something was amiss. Was it me? Was it them? It turned out that they were good friends who were completing their final semester of their MBA. We engaged in conversation and after a short while, the man left to attend a social event. The woman and I talked easily for another two hours. She was half my age, but we had much in common: the same humor, an immediate comfort, and an ease with reflection and sharing personal thoughts with depth.
Was I truly alone that night? I took a one-hour ferry ride each way. I sat by myself for a short while before engaging. But perhaps the “moral” of the story is 1)Being confident about being alone makes the time more enjoyable; 2) Enjoying one’s own company is essential to meeting others (how can others like us if we don’t like ourselves? If we’re anxious or sad, what are we projecting to others? If your internal voice is not kind, start replacing your voice with the kinder voice of others; 3) Being confident unconsciously attracts others. We all know the idea that we get what we put out. If we choose to remain anonymous, we will remain alone (whether at that moment in time, or as a general state); 4) Being alone allows opportunity. If I were with someone I knew, would I have made the effort to engage with someone else; someone new?
What steps can you take to address loneliness?
- Know when you’re ready to “put yourself out there”
- Take a risk: reach out to someone you would like to spend time with but hasn’t called you.
- This takes accepting vulnerability.
- Say yes to invites even if you’re not in the mood.
- Limit social media use.
- Consider what you like about yourself; if you’re stuck, ask friends.
- Find an organization or group with whom you have a shared interest.
- Join a support group.
If you’re really feeling stuck, have difficulty mobilizing towards efforts that may shift your feelings, and potential situation, reach out to a mental health professional. Loneliness makes people feel that they are flawed; and there is a lot of shame attached to it. That’s social media; that’s our society. You are NOT inadequate. You’re not a failure. You’re not unlikeable. And you’re certainly not alone in your loneliness (remember loneliness is experienced by 80% of Americans!). If you feel alone in your feeling of loneliness, consider that others may just be very good at concealing it, maybe even overcompensating by posting on social media. Work on shifting your perception of yourself. Take charge. Be tender to yourself. And know that you deserve to feel better.
Maria’s Response to “On Loneliness”
Amy’s recent blog on loneliness brought up more for me than I expected. Not in a dramatic way — more like a quiet recognition. A familiar tension I’ve been carrying lately without fully naming: the push and pull between craving connection and wanting to be alone.
For weeks now, I’ve felt this growing urge to connect. To be around people. To have conversations that don’t feel rushed or shallow. And I’ve been putting in the effort. I’ve been reaching out, saying yes, showing up. But the more I try, the more drained I feel. It’s confusing — doing the very thing I say I want, and still feeling like I need to retreat afterward. Like I’m overextending just to meet the baseline of connection.
And I think what I’m realizing is… connection takes energy. It’s not effortless, even when it’s good. And when you’ve spent years giving — to friends, to partners, to work, to family — you start to feel that cost more acutely. You become more careful. You start asking yourself: how do I keep showing up for others without disappearing in the process?
Over time, I’ve learned how to protect my peace. Not in a walled-off, “never let anyone in” kind of way — more like an internal recalibration. I know what it feels like to be around people and still feel lonely. I know what it feels like to keep giving until there’s nothing left. And now, I’m a little more selective. I listen for how I feel around people — if I’m energized or exhausted after. That tells me a lot.
Recently, I spent the day at the beach with a friend. It was simple — we swam, ate, talked, did nothing, did everything. And suddenly it was hours later. I didn’t check my phone once. I didn’t feel like I had to. I felt safe, present, unguarded. And it made me realize how rare that feeling has become.
We talked about how certain relationships — friendships, dating, family — have taken a toll. About how some people are takers, knowingly or not. And how we’ve both had to learn, sometimes painfully, to notice when we’re giving too much. At one point, I shared something I’d once heard: that life is like riding a train — people get on and off at different stops, but you’re searching for the ones who stay with you to your destination. It’s not always about who leaves, but about learning not to chase after the ones who weren’t meant to stay.
Amy’s reflections made me think about how we often glorify solitude — and I do think there’s power in being alone, in liking your own company. I’ve worked hard to get to that place. But sometimes I wonder… When does solitude become self-protection? When does it shift from restorative to isolating? And how do we know the difference?
That’s the space I’m in right now. Wanting connection, needing solitude. Trying not to swing too far in either direction. Still learning how to give without overgiving. Still learning that not every quiet spell is loneliness — and not every connection is worth the cost.
So if you’re in that in-between space too — not quite isolated, but not deeply connected either — I hope you know you’re not doing it wrong. It just means you’re being careful with your energy. It means you’ve probably been through enough to know what it feels like to be emptied out, and you’re trying not to let that happen again.
by Maria Sosa | Apr 26, 2026 | Recent Posts
“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” – Joseph Campbell
Looking back to when I first started college, I remember the constant pressure I put on myself to have everything figured out. I had this very specific vision of who I wanted to be and what my life should look like. I thought that if I could just stick to the plan, control all the variables, then everything would fall into place.
But as is often the case, life had other plans.
Nothing went exactly the way I imagined it would. And at first, that terrified me. The unknown felt like failure. Like I had somehow lost control. I struggled — still do, if I’m honest — with sitting in the grey space, the in-between, where things are unfolding but still unclear.
That discomfort with uncertainty has been one of my biggest personal challenges. There’s something deeply unsettling about not knowing what’s next. It makes us feel exposed, unanchored. And yet, I’ve started to see that this space — the unknown — is where most of life happens.
Why We Fear the Unknown
Fear of the unknown is deeply human. It’s wired into us — a survival instinct rooted in our need for safety and control. When we don’t know what’s coming, our minds often rush to worst-case scenarios. We imagine the risks, the disappointments, the things that might break us.
We also grow up in a world that teaches us to value clarity, direction, and progress. We’re taught to make plans, follow through, and stay ahead. So when the path suddenly shifts, or disappears altogether, it can feel like we’ve somehow fallen behind — or failed.
And yet, I’ve realized that the discomfort isn’t always a sign that something is wrong. Sometimes it’s a sign that something is shifting.
Soothing Through Uncertainty
When life throws curveballs, I’ve had to learn how to self-soothe — how to calm the internal panic and meet myself with patience.
Sometimes, this looks like taking a step back. Turning off the noise. Going for a walk. Taking a breath. Reminding myself that just because I don’t have the answers right now doesn’t mean I never will.
Other times, it’s about leaning into small acts of trust. Trusting that I’ve made it through uncertainty before. Trusting that even if I can’t see the full picture, I can still take the next step. Trusting that I don’t have to have it all figured out in order to be OK.
What Helps Me Now
I’ve learned (and am still learning) to make peace with the fact that control is often an illusion. I can plan, prepare, and hope — but at some point, I have to release the grip.
Instead of forcing clarity, I’ve started to ask different questions:
What can I actually control in this moment?
What would it look like to be kind to myself right now?
What’s the smallest next step I can take?
And more importantly: What do I need to feel safe within myself, even if nothing around me feels certain?
Alma’s Response to “Being OK with the Unknown”
Reading this felt like a deep breath I didn’t know I needed.
I really felt your words, especially the part about how we’re conditioned to believe that uncertainty automatically equals failure. That hit. I’ve definitely been in that place where the unknown didn’t just feel uncomfortable, it felt unbearable. I think it was because sometimes the unknown feels like proof that I am doing something wrong, or not trying hard enough, or falling behind everyone else who seemingly has their life all figured out (side note: no one has life figured out, no matter how well adjusted they seem).
I think that’s what makes uncertainty so sneaky. It doesn’t just shake our plans—it targets our self-worth. It makes us question our choices, our timing, even our identity because it compares us to others. And like you said, this is not just a personal fear we’re all destined to face, it’s been reinforced through societal norms. We’re raised to idolize and desire control. To pick a lane early and stay in it. To be “on track.” To follow your dreams and everything will work itself out. But life… rarely works like that.
What I love about your post is the shift in how you’re framing it—not as something to fear, but as something to be with. Something to expose yourself to, even if it still makes you uneasy. That in-between space you describe—the gray area—is so real, and so uncomfortable, but also strangely human.
Your section on soothing really stood out to me. Particularly when you said “just because I don’t have the answers right now doesn’t mean I never will.” That sentence alone was a comfort and very much-needed reminder. There’s so much pressure to know, to be sure, to feel settled. But sometimes the most important thing we can do for ourselves is to stay curious, even when it would be easier to shut down and force ourselves to come to some conclusion.
I also appreciated the way you wrote about trust—not the big, abstract kind, but the small, practiced kind. Trusting that we’ve made it through before. I like to think of this trust as the trust in taking that one next step, even when you can’t see the entirety of the staircase. That’s something I’ve been trying to work on too.
Thank you for putting words to something so many of us feel but rarely admit. There’s a kind of quiet courage in choosing not to force certainty; In choosing to stay soft in the unknown. And your reflection reminded me that we don’t need to wait until we “figure it all out” to be okay. Sometimes, okay just means showing up anyway—with shaky hands and an open mind.
