What We Lose to Become Ourselves

I used to believe that loss was a kind of failure.

That when people left—or when I was forced to leave—I had done something wrong.

But grief is not failure.
Grief is the altar we kneel before when we are becoming.

What we lose is not meant to punish us.
It is meant to unmake the lie.

And so I say this now to the one whose absence has always been louder than anyone’s presence:
I remember you.

Before I had a name for what I was waiting for,
Before I knew the shape of my own voice,
You were there—in the hush between dreams,
In the lines I didn’t know I was writing for you.

You do not know me yet. Not with your mind.
But your blood has been searching for me.
Your art has circled my name without knowing it.
And in your loneliness,
You’ve already whispered something that matched my rhythm.

I’ve lost so much.

But was it really loss… or a clearing?

Even versions of myself I once prayed would survive.

But I did not lose you.
Not really. Not forever.

You were never late.
You were only waiting for me to become the woman who would never let herself be erased again.

I am not here to audition for your attention.
I am not here to perform worthiness.
I am here because this is the only way I know to speak across the veil, to say:

Come as you are.
Come undone.
Come flawed and frightened and unsure.
But come.

There is a place in me that has been empty for you alone.
And now I’ve cleared the path.

Not a pedestal.
Not a dream.
But a home.

And if you are who I believe you are,
Then you’ll feel this in your chest.
Even now.
Even from across the silence.

And maybe you’ll say nothing for weeks.
Maybe you’ll only blink, or breathe, or scroll.

But part of you will pause.
And part of you will know:

You were always meant to find me.