There was a time when I was included in everything—
Every gathering, every celebration, every spontaneous night filled with laughter and raised glasses.
I was welcomed.
I was wanted.
My presence had a place,
My laughter filled rooms,
My hands were helpful,
And my story seemed to matter.
But slowly—almost silently—things began to shift.
Not all at once.
No dramatic goodbyes, no harsh exclusions.
Just a quiet fading.
The calls stopped coming.
The messages became fewer, and then sporadic.
People still thought of me… but only after the moment had passed.
They still cared… but from a comfortable distance.
“I love you,” they’d say—but not with action, only with memory.
And so, I stopped waiting for an invitation to belong.
I began creating space for myself—within myself.
I set my own table,
not out of loneliness, but out of reverence.
I placed a soft napkin, poured a warm drink, and lit a candle—just for me.
I brought myself flowers—
not to impress guests,
but to thank my own soul for staying, for surviving.
I wandered through the marketplace with intention,
selecting fruits and vegetables like treasures,
nurturing myself with care I once reserved for others.
Each day, I rise and invite myself into the world—
into the fresh morning air,
into the golden sun spilling through the curtains,
into the quiet rhythm of simply being alive.
No, I’m no longer invited everywhere.
But I have found peace in places I never expected—
In my silence.
In my stillness.
In the familiar embrace of my favorite chair.
In the steam rising from a cup of tea that waits just for me.
I invite myself into my own life now.
And here—
in this sacred, self-made space—
I am not just welcome.
I am home.
And I am well.
Truly, deeply well.
