The gravity of familiar arms

I feel a particular kind of melancholy towards a feeling of comfort in the arms of someone you know isn't right for you. The familiarity of arms that wrap around you with warmth and a laugh that vibrates on the side of your neck. From the ease of slipping into something that once felt natural.

And from knowing - deep in your gut - that it still isn’t right.

Recently, I saw someone who used to mean something to me. This wasn't the type of connection that would lead to a “we almost got married” heartbreak. It was formative of sorts. In the way that some people come into your life and shape you quietly, inspire change and awaken parts of you that you didn't know were dormant. The kind of connection that would leave fingerprints on who you are but in a soft way. This wasn't someone who changed my life, just a connection along the way.

Seeing him felt… normal and effortless. Like jumping into a familiar lake and knowing exactly how cold the water will be. I could have stayed there for a while. Maybe even convinced myself it was enough. Being there was easy and I didn't have to explain myself. Not for the past, not for what didn't work, not for how I was feeling in the moment.

But comfort and compatibility are not the same thing.

Sometimes the person isn’t wrong for you because they’re toxic. They’re wrong for you because they’re shaped differently. Like trying to push a square into a circular hole.

You can press hard. You can tilt it at different angles. You can even chip away at the edges of the circle to make room. You might get part of it through. Half of it. Enough to convince yourself it almost fits. But it never fully settles. The longer you push, the more you start shaving pieces off yourself to make it work.

That’s my toxic trait - I lean in anyway.

I romanticize perseverance. I see comfort as a sign. I tell myself, “If it feels this easy, maybe I’m overthinking the rest.” I focus on how safe it feels to be held instead of asking whether I feel expanded. Fulfilled. Chosen in the way I want to be chosen. Even if we just don't fit.

I can tell myself, “This is fine.”

I can lower my expectations down to match what’s available or sand down my corners so the fit doesn’t feel so obviously wrong.

He isn’t a bad person. He isn’t wrong. He just isn’t mine.

You can feel safe with someone and still not be aligned with them. You can love how they hold you and still know they aren’t your future. You can appreciate who they were in your story and still understand they aren’t the final chapter.

There is sadness in knowing someone was formative, but not forever. There is ache in recognizing that they helped shape you into who you are - but they aren’t who you’re becoming. And there’s something almost cruel about how peaceful it feels in the moment. Because nothing is obviously wrong. There’s no betrayal. No glaring red flags. Just a quiet misalignment in what you want, how you love, how you envision your life unfolding.

You leave the night feeling warm… and hollow at the same time. It feels like voluntarily choosing the cold side of the pillow because you know the warmth comes with a cost.

Half-fulfilled.

Like only half the square made it through.

I think part of growing up - or maybe just growing into yourself - is learning to honor the comfort without mistaking it for destiny. To appreciate what someone gave you without trying to force them into a role they were never meant to play.

Some people are bridges. Some are mirrors. Some are catalysts.

And some are simply proof that you’ve evolved.

Maybe maturity is walking away from something that feels good but isn’t right. In choosing fullness over familiarity. In refusing to chip away at your own edges just to fit into someone else’s shape.

Because the right fit won’t require force.

It won’t require sanding down corners. It won’t require half of you to squeeze through.

It will hold all of you.

And until then, I’m learning that comfort, is not enough. And that, is absolutely okay.

A wraparound porch on a rainy day kind of love

I feel a sort of nostalgia that only visits me on rainy days.

It’s not tied to a person or to a memory I can point to. Not to a house I’ve lived in before. It’s nostalgia for something that hasn’t happened yet - a softness I haven’t experienced, but somehow already miss.

When it rains, the world slows down in a way that feels gravitational. The air thickens. The light dims just enough to make everything gentler. The sound of rain hitting the roof, the pavement, the trees - it’s steady, rhythmic, protective. It wraps around you. It gives you permission to pause.

And every single time, my mind drifts to the same place.

A house somewhere quiet. Near or in the woods. Definitely with a wraparound porch - the kind that curves around the front like open arms and hugs it. On that porch, there’s a swing. A big one. Wide. Couch-like. The kind you can curl into without worrying about falling off the edge.

It’s raining. Loud.

The sky is grey but not sad. The kind of grey that feels full. The kind that makes everything outside look cinematic. The trees sway slightly. The scent of wet earth lingers in the air. Petrichor.

We’re sitting on that swing.

We’re wrapped in oversized blankets - the kind that swallow you whole. Our legs are tangled. His arm is around me in a way that feels instinctive. No one is trying to impress anyone. No one is trying to be chosen. We already have.

There are two big mugs of tea resting on the little table beside us, steam curling upward into the cool air. Every sip is slow. Every word is unhurried.

And we just talk.

About everything.

About childhood memories. About fears we don’t tell most people. About dreams that feel too fragile to say out loud. About the kind of people we used to be. About the ways we’ve grown. About the parts of ourselves we’re still trying to understand.

And the most beautiful part?

There’s no rush.

No checking the time. No wondering what this is. No anxiety about where it’s going. No fear of saying too much or too little. Just presence.

The rain fills the quiet spaces between our words. The woods hum softly in the background. Nature becomes our soundtrack. And love doesn’t feel loud or fiery or urgent - it feels steady. It feels like being understood mid-sentence. It feels like someone not just hearing your words, but feeling them as you speak.

I crave that kind of love.

The kind where sitting on a porch during a storm is the highlight of the day. Where joy doesn’t require spectacle. Where intimacy isn’t measured in grand gestures, but in shared stillness.

I yearn to be loved in a way that feels gentle.

Gentle enough that silence is safe and that time stretches instead of races. Gentle enough that the best possible plan is simply to stay right where we are.

There’s something about rain that strips everything back to what matters. It quiets the world so you can hear your own heart. And every time it pours, I realize what I’m longing for isn’t fireworks.

It’s depth.

It’s warmth that doesn’t burn out. It’s conversation that lingers. It’s being held in a way that says, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Maybe that’s why rainy days feel nostalgic. They give me a glimpse of a future I haven’t stepped into yet - a life where love is soft, intentional, and rooted.

A life where the storm outside only makes the inside warmer.

One day, when it rains, I won’t just be imagining it.

I’ll be on that porch. On that swing. Wrapped in blankets. Tea growing cold because we’re too lost in conversation to notice.

And the rain will fall the same way it always has - steady, grounding, patient.

But this time, I won’t be longing for the moment.

I’ll be living it.

As always, thanks for coming to my Cez talk xo

Being misunderstood - story of my fricken life

There’s something uniquely painful about being misunderstood.

Rejection says, “I don’t choose you.”

Misunderstanding says, “I don’t believe you.”

And the second one cuts deeper.

Because rejection is preference, alignment, timing. It’s choice. But being misunderstood feels like standing fully in your truth and having someone look at you as if you’re performing.

I’ve experienced this twice in my life in a way that truly altered me.

The first time was years ago - a connection that felt rare, electric, undeniable. The kind that shifts your internal standard for what chemistry and depth can feel like. I wrote about it more than once. I thought it might be the only time I would ever feel something that intense. That feeling lingered. That person stayed on my mind for years to follow.

And then, unexpectedly, years later, it happened again.

Back in October, I met someone who, from the very first conversation, felt different. Familiar in a way that startled me. Safe in a way that made me want to dive in headfirst. Nothing in recent years had touched me the way that connection did.

And ironically, both of those rare connections entered my life at moments when something else had just ended.Not because I was searching or because I was rebounding. Not because I hadn’t processed. But because life doesn’t consult your emotional timeline before introducing you to someone extraordinary.

There’s this unspoken expectation that you must sit alone in reflection for a socially acceptable amount of time before you’re “allowed” to feel something new. That if something ends, you are required to digest it fully before stepping into another possibility.

But sometimes that’s not how life works.

Sometimes you’re simply living. And then someone walks in. And you feel it immediately.

And when something great shows up, you don’t delay it to satisfy optics. You don’t dim your excitement to appear cautious. You don’t pretend indifference because it might look more respectable.

You lean in.

And that leaning in can look suspicious to someone watching from the outside.

When October unfolded, I was honest. About my past. About the timing. About everything. Because if you begin something meaningful on omission or distortion, what’s the point?

But honesty doesn’t always land as integrity. Sometimes it lands as threat.

Sometimes your openness becomes someone else’s doubt. Sometimes your authenticity feels, to them, like too much, too soon. Sometimes being ready looks like recklessness to someone who isn’t.

And that’s where the ache lives - in the misinterpretation.

What I felt was real, grounded and intentional and it was reframed as impulsive or performative. It was like being accused, subtly or directly, of not knowing your own heart.

There’s something destabilizing about that. I began questioning whether transparency was a mistake. Whether I should have curated the narrative differently. Whether holding back would have protected something rare.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand:

I will never regret being honest - even if honesty cost me something potentially extraordinary. Because if I lied or changed anything about the interaction, I would have no longer been me.

Because the alternative would have been to start something meaningful on a lie. And I would rather lose something rare than build something beautiful on misrepresentation.

Some connections come once in a blue moon. They change the temperature of your expectations. They remind you what depth feels like. They recalibrate your nervous system to what safety, chemistry, and intellectual alignment can be when they exist at the same time.

And when they leave, they linger.

Everyone who crosses our path plays a role. Even the fleeting ones. But every so often, someone arrives who expands you in a way that doesn’t evaporate when they do.

And maybe the real lesson isn’t about timing.

Maybe it’s about capacity.

About whether two people can hold the same intensity without fear. About whether readiness is measured by calendar distance - or emotional clarity. About whether being misunderstood is simply evidence that you were operating at a depth someone else wasn’t prepared to meet.

That said, I think I would still choose to live the way I do - open, honest, willing to dive in when something feels rare - rather than shrink myself into a version that looks more convenient. I would still like to wear my heart on my sleeve in the event that someone rare will cross my path again and they will catch me when I fall head first.

Cause frankly put, we really do have only one life to live and I really want to live it. I want to love passionately and I want to be loved in return. I want to say everything out loud exactly when I feel it. I don't want to be afraid that every little thing I say will spark the wrong reaction.

So yes, October still lingers in my mind because I felt deeply in a way that I hadn't in years. October still lingers because I felt seen, safe and happy.

But life doesn’t wait for perfect timing.

And I can't either.

As always, thanks for coming to my Cez talk xo.