Let’s Start a Conversation

Have you ever confused attention with love?

Not because you were foolish.

Not because you didn’t know better.

But because attention can feel a lot like love when you’re longing to be seen.

My answer?

I think we all have at some point in our lives.

Someone texts every day.

Someone compliments us.

Someone wants our time.

Someone makes us feel noticed.

And for a moment, it feels like love.

But attention and love are not always the same thing.

Attention says:

“I enjoy your presence.”

Love says:

“I value your well-being.”

Attention can be inconsistent.

Love learns consistency.

Attention enjoys the moment.

Love considers the future.

Attention can make you feel wanted.

Love makes you feel safe.

The truth is, many of us have mistaken being pursued for being cherished.

And sometimes we don’t recognize the difference until much later.

So here’s the question:

Have you ever confused attention with love?

And what helped you learn the difference?

Starting over

And so I began to start over again.

I have to form new connections that take time to mend.

It’s been so long I no longer remember when

I last had to do this—

these fragile beginnings, these slow attempts to begin.

I don’t know if I’m still capable.

All the people I’ve met, the ones who turned out unstable,

they left me with mood swings I didn’t ask for,

echoes I still carry in my chest and my mind.

And still… I believe I can find real love.

I believe love can still win.

That I can build healthy friendships

that make my face grin again.

That someone will know where I’ve been,

without ever judging the skin I’m in.

So I’ll try again.

- Countlessmelanin Instagram

The One I Ignored Who Never Left

by Valrelyn Parson

There are moments in life when silence settles into a relationship so deeply that it becomes normal.

At first, it is subtle.

You forget the small things.

The simple questions.

“How was your day?”

“I missed you.”

“I love you.”

Eventually, the silence grows comfortable.

Two people can sit in the same room, share the same life, and yet feel like strangers.

It becomes easier not to speak.

Easier not to notice.

Easier to pretend the distance does not exist.

And over time, silence becomes its own kind of companion.

⸻

But silence has a cost.

Because when you stop speaking, you also stop sharing.

You stop running to the person who once meant everything.

You stop telling them about your fears, your disappointments, your victories, and your pain.

The little things that once mattered slowly disappear.

Not because love is gone.

But because neglect has quietly taken its place.

⸻

Time has a way of softening wounds, but the scars remain.

And I often wondered why you stayed.

Why you never walked away.

Because if the roles were reversed, perhaps I would have.

There were moments when I ignored you for days.

Sometimes weeks.

Sometimes longer.

I only came to you when I needed something.

When life fell apart.

When someone else hurt me.

When the promises of the world failed me.

⸻

I chased after other things.

Other loves.

Other distractions.

Things that looked exciting in the moment but never stayed long enough to hold me when everything fell apart.

Yet every time the world broke my heart…

You were still there.

Waiting.

Listening.

Holding me close as if I had never left.

⸻

And that is the part that confused me the most.

Why stay?

Why love someone who takes you for granted?

Why forgive someone who keeps running away?

Why welcome back someone who constantly chooses other things over you?

⸻

I was angry at your silence.

Because you never judged me.

You never shamed me.

You never forced me to return.

Instead, you simply waited.

Patient.

Faithful.

Unmoved.

⸻

And eventually the weight of that kind of love became unbearable.

Because guilt has a way of exposing truth.

I knew what I had done.

I knew how many times I had turned my back.

How many times I chose temporary pleasures over something real.

How many times I walked through life pretending you didn’t exist.

Yet you never left.

⸻

So I finally stopped running.

I stopped pretending.

I stopped fighting a love that refused to abandon me.

And standing there in the middle of my own mess…

I surrendered.

Not because I deserved forgiveness.

But because I realized it had already been given.

⸻

You were never the one who left.

I was.

And still…

You stayed.

Closer than a brother.

More patient than any human love could ever be.

Waiting for the moment I would finally understand.

⸻

Now I know what real love looks like.

It is not loud.

It is not forceful.

It does not demand attention.

It simply remains.

Steady.

Unmovable.

Faithful.

⸻

And now I know who you are.

You are the love I ignored.

The voice I silenced.

The presence I walked past a thousand times.

Yet you never turned away from me.

⸻

You were always there.

With open arms.

Waiting.

Loving.

Forgiving.

⸻

And now I finally understand.

You were never asking for perfection.

Only my heart.

⸻

So here I am.

No more running.

No more silence.

No more pretending.

I surrender completely.

Because the truth is…

I was never alone.

I was simply loved by a God who refused to leave.

⸻

Becoming Poured Out

When obedience feels costly, but heaven multiplies

There is a moment in Scripture that has always stayed with me — the story of Elijah and the widow. She was down to her last meal. One final portion of bread. Her plan was simple and heartbreaking: make it, eat it with her son, and then die.

Then the prophet asked her for it.

Not tomorrow.

Not after she figured things out.

Now.

What looks cruel at first glance was actually an invitation — not to loss, but to trust. Because what she saw as her end, God saw as her seed.

Her container was not empty.

It only looked empty.

Sometimes God asks us to pour out what we believe we cannot spare — our time, our strength, our love, our obedience — not because He wants to take from us, but because He knows what we are carrying still has purpose.

She poured.

And heaven filled.

The oil did not run dry.

The flour did not fail.

Provision followed obedience.

Becoming poured out is not about depletion.

It is about trusting that God multiplies what we surrender.

When we give Him our last, we discover it was never the end —

Becoming Released

Letting go without losing yourself

There comes a moment in life when holding on no longer feels faithful — it feels heavy.

Not because what you carried was wrong, but because the season for carrying it has ended.

Becoming released is not quitting.

It’s discerning when God is saying, “You can put that down now.”

We spend so much of our lives gripping things tightly — relationships, roles, expectations, even versions of ourselves that once kept us safe. We hold on out of loyalty, fear, or the belief that letting go means we failed. But release is not failure; it is obedience.

Some things you had to carry to survive.

Other things you must release in order to live.

There are people you outgrew, not because you became better, but because you became different. There are assignments that were sacred for a season but were never meant to define you forever. And there are wounds that have healed enough that they no longer need to be revisited.

Release doesn’t mean you stop caring.

It means you stop carrying what was never meant to be yours alone.

When God releases you, He is not removing purpose — He is refining it. He is freeing your hands so you can receive what comes next without exhaustion, resentment, or fear.

This is the quiet work of maturity.

Knowing when to stay.

Knowing when to step back.

Knowing when peace matters more than proving a point.

Becoming released is choosing trust over control.

It’s believing that what God has for you will not require you to bleed to keep it.

And sometimes, the holiest thing you can do is say:

Learning to rest in the life God has already carried you through

When I look in the mirror now, I don’t just see who I am —

I see how far I’ve come.

I look back at the journey behind me and sometimes I wonder, How did I even make it through all of that?

And every time, the same words rise quietly in my spirit:

But God.

There were moments I should not have survived.

Seasons that should have broken me.

Paths I walked without clarity, strength, or certainty.

And yet — here I am.

Not because I was strong.

Not because I had it all figured out.

But because God carried me through what I could not carry myself through.

⸻

I remember a video circulating on social media — a conversation between an older man and a younger one.

The younger man asked, “What would you do differently if you could go back?”

The older man didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he told the younger man to draw a line on a page and number it from 1 to 100.

Then he asked him to find his current age and circle it.

The younger man circled his number.

Then the older man circled his.

And in that moment, the lesson became clear.

The younger man still had time — time to fix mistakes, to learn, to grow, to begin again.

But the older man understood something different:

His time was no longer about striving.

It was about intentional living.

⸻

As I move closer to sixty, I feel that truth settling into my bones.

I’m no longer interested in noise.

I’m no longer willing to be confined by drama, performance, or pretending.

I don’t want to spend what remains of my race proving anything to anyone.

I am striving now for peace, for purpose, for wholeness.

Becoming still doesn’t mean I’ve stopped growing.

It means I’ve stopped rushing.

It means I trust God enough to rest in the life He’s already written —

and the chapters still unfolding.

Stillness has taught me that:

• Peace is a gift, not a reward

• Purpose doesn’t require exhaustion

• And wholeness comes when we finally stop running from ourselves

⸻

I don’t need to fake it anymore.

I don’t need to chase what was never meant for me.

I simply want to enjoy what the Lord still has in store —

A life filled with love.

A heart anchored in peace.

A soul at rest in Him.