The Eleven Days I Missed You

🌱 May you leave with a seed planted.

The news of Rosalynn Carter's passing stirred something in me. She was a woman who stood beside her husband not just in title, but in truth. "Rosalynn was my equal partner in everything I ever accomplished," Jimmy Carter said. "She gave me wise guidance and encouragement when I needed it. As long as Rosalynn was in the world, I always knew somebody loved and supported me."

That kind of love—the kind that steadies you, that sees you, that stays—is rare. 

And it made me think of R.

About a month ago, I stepped out on faith and told R I loved him. 

I didn't expect him to say it back. I know how he moves through the world—his love is quiet, steady, shown in what he does more than what he says. I get that. Still, even with that understanding, my fears and doubts crept in -- I'd just exposed a part of me that's a bit shy, insecure, and vulnerable.  

They whispered stories I didn't ask to hear. My mind took me on a long-distance train ride I never meant to board, where doubt and insecurity became my travel companions:

He and I don't talk much when we're apart. I crave more connection, but maybe he doesn't. He makes time for others—perhaps I don't measure up. Maybe he thinks I'm not enough. Possibly I'm too much. Perhaps I'm not informed enough, not lighthearted enough, not fun enough. Maybe the sad parts of me are too visible now, and he'll grow tired. Perhaps he already has.

I couldn't stop the spiral. I couldn't see clearly that R wasn't leaving. He hadn't gone anywhere.

But the voices grew louder, and eventually, they took over. Until last Monday, I sat at his kitchen table and wrote him a letter. I didn't mean to hurt him, but I know now that I did. I wasn't there when he read it, but I can still see the look on his face in my mind.

Then came silence. Eleven days of it.

I heard nothing from R. My thoughts gnawed at me—at the letter, at everything I'd said and hadn't said. I felt hollow without our connection. I missed him.

This past Saturday, after seeing clients, I sat in my car, unsure. Drive to him or not? I was scared. I thought I'd ruined it.

But then, through the fog, came a flicker of clarity: R grounds me. He always has. He's still there, even now. He's hurt, yes, and giving me space. But he cares. He's confused by the mixed signals. He doesn't know what to do. Go to him. He's your rock. He needs to know that. He needs to know you still want him in your life.

So I drove.

When I pulled into the driveway, his daughter, L, ran out to greet me, and his son, J, followed with his goofy grin. I opened my arms, and they folded into me. It felt right. It felt good.

Then I saw R. 

He stepped down the stone steps. I left the group hug and walked toward him, hesitant. I didn't want him to see my nervousness. I slipped my arm around his waist, hoping he'd receive me.

He did.

We talked for hours. Honestly. Gently.

He told me he'd felt empty too. That he hadn't liked the silence either.

He asked if he was being too much to ask me to wait for him to discover his deeper feelings for me on his own, that he was okay with me telling him how I felt, and was unthreatened. And could we keep evolving? 

No, R. You're not being too much. 

You are enough. You always have been and always will be. 

And you're worthy of the wait.