Growth has always been quiet with me. It comes through time, in the slow warmth of understanding, or through experience that leaves its trace. We grow either through the steady rhythm of learning or in the sharp clarity of pain. Time teaches with tenderness. Pain, with precision.
Both ask something of you and both leave something behind.
When you resist growth, when you hold back from it, something inside you stops moving. It may not show on the surface, but eventually that stillness begins to ache. It catches up with you.
When you care for someone—whether it’s a partner, a child, or someone your heart holds close—you want to protect them. To soften the edges and hold them close when the world feels too sharp.
But when you keep stepping in to carry the weight, you take something from them. You interrupt the very space where their strength could have grown. It may look like love or devotion but often, hidden beneath that protection, is a quiet sacrifice. And too often, that sacrifice is you.
What I’ve learned since then is that you must care for yourself first. Not to create distance, but from love of yourself and others you care about.
Let your happiness come from within. Let it be something solid and steady. Something sacred that belongs only to you.
Then, when you offer it—your time, your attention, your presence—it comes not from need.
It comes from choice. From fullness.
And that kind of energy does not chase.
It draws.
Quietly. Completely.