Am I seen, known, and loved?
I have a hundred people I could text and nobody I could call at two in the morning. That's the part nobody warns you about. When I left for college I stopped going to church and honestly nobody noticed, which told me most of what I needed to know about how known I actually was.
A woman at work invited me to a small gathering at her place. Eight of us, a question on a piece of paper, no agenda. She asked what I wanted, not what I believed, and I sat there for a full minute because no one had ever asked me that. It took months before I trusted that they weren't going to drop me. They didn't. That's the first place I have ever felt seen.
There are things from my past that I thought I would be over by now. Someone hurt me deeply, and even though time has passed, I still carry it. I can be having a completely normal day, and something will bring it all back—the anger, the disappointment, the questions about why it happened. Part of me wants to let it go, but another part feels like forgiving them means they got away with what they did.
On the other hand, I know what it's like to be the person who caused the hurt. Even though I've tried to own what I did, I still have a hard time forgiving myself. I replay those mistakes over and over. I think about what I should have said, what I should have done differently, and fear that person will always see me as the worst thing I ever did.
I'm stuck on both sides of forgiveness. I'm angry at someone for what they did to me, and I'm angry at myself for what I did to someone else. I don't want either of those things to define me, but I also don't know how to just “let them go.” I wonder whether forgiveness is less about saying the past doesn't matter and more about deciding how much power I'm going to let it have over my future.
I thought graduating from college would feel like finally arriving somewhere. Instead, it feels like everything that used to give my life structure disappeared overnight. My friends are scattered—some moved away, some started demanding jobs, some are in serious relationships—and finding a community as an adult is way harder than I expected.
At the same time, the world just feels… loud. I wake up, grab my phone, and before I've even gotten out of bed, I'm hit with headlines about another crisis, people arguing over politics, advertisements telling me what I need, and posts from people who seem to have their entire lives figured out. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone wants me to pick a side. Everything feels urgent. I want to care about what's happening in the world, but sometimes it's just too much. I find myself scrolling through social media feeling anxious, frustrated, or somehow behind in a life I'm only just beginning.
I miss having people around me who really know me—not just people I follow or text occasionally, but people I can actually do life with. I think what I'm craving most right now is somewhere I can belong, people I can trust, and stillness and silence to figure out what I actually think, what matters to me, and who I want to become without the whole world constantly screaming at me.
Lately I've been questioning a lot of what I grew up believing. Faith was always just part of my life—church, prayer, certain beliefs about God and how I was supposed to live—but I'm realizing I accepted a lot of it without ever really asking why. Now I have questions I'm not sure I was ever comfortable asking out loud. Is God real? Why does God allow so much suffering? Is the Bible really trustworthy? And what do I do with teachings that I don't understand or agree with?
Sometimes I feel guilty even asking these questions, like doubting means I'm walking away from everything I was taught. But I don't think I want to walk away. I think I want to know if any of it is actually true. I want a place where I can ask the questions I've been carrying for years, challenge what I've always assumed, and have honest conversations with people who aren't afraid of my doubts. If faith is going to be part of my life as an adult, I want it to be because I've wrestled with it, asked the hard questions, and discovered for myself that there's something real here.
Lately I've been wondering where I actually belong. I have friends, coworkers, and people I spend time with, but so many conversations seem to start with, “What do you do?” It can feel like people want to know my job, my accomplishments, or what I have going on before they want to know me.
Recently, some friends invited me to a gathering, and I almost didn't go. But when I got there, something felt different. People asked about what I enjoy, what I care about, what makes me laugh, and what's been going on in my life. They seemed genuinely interested in me—not my résumé or what I could offer them.
I've gone back a few times, and honestly, I really enjoy being there. There's something about this community that feels different, and I find myself looking forward to seeing these people again. But there's still a part of me that wonders, Do I really belong here? Are these actually my people? Can I really just show up as myself and be accepted? I don't know the answer yet, but for the first time in a while, I think I want to stick around long enough to find out.
Making friends used to feel a lot easier. In college, I had a big social circle and there was always someone around, but adult life feels different. I'm naturally pretty introverted, and social situations can make me anxious, especially when I don't know people well. I want real friendships, but opening up and letting people actually know me is hard.
A while ago, I started going to a small group at a church. Most weeks, I'm still one of the quieter people in the room. I listen more than I talk, and when conversations get personal, I tend to hold back. Sometimes I wonder if anyone even notices I'm there. But then I'll miss a week and someone texts me to ask if I'm okay. When I come back, people tell me they missed me. No one pressures me to talk more or makes me feel bad for being quiet—they just seem genuinely glad I showed up. I'm still not sure I'm ready to completely let my guard down, but I keep going back.
There's something about being around people who notice when I'm gone, make room for me when I'm there, and don't expect me to be someone I'm not. Maybe authentic friendship doesn't happen all at once. Maybe, for me, it starts with simply showing up and slowly allowing myself to be seen.
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