A Confused 30-ish Blogger

Six years is a long time to carry someone in your heart.

Six years of distance stretched across a map. I was in the Midwest living my ordinary days while you were on the West Coast living yours. Two different worlds, different time zones, different lives. And yet somehow, our paths kept circling back to each other like we were caught in the same quiet orbit.

For six years, your name lighting up my phone never got old.

You were my good morning texts.

My sweet dreams before bed.

The one person I could talk to all day and still not feel ready to say goodbye.

Some people drain you after a while. With you, conversation never did. It was easy. Playful. Sharp. We could trade jokes back and forth for hours, and you could take them just as well as you gave them. Around you I never had to shrink my personality. I could be loud, ridiculous, sarcastic, and entirely myself.

And somehow you always matched my energy.

You had this quiet way of looking at me that made me feel like I was the most beautiful thing in the room. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the way your eyes settled on me like there wasn’t anyone else worth noticing.

You were also the man who always made sure I never made a fool of myself in public. If a moment started getting awkward, you’d step in without anyone really noticing—redirect the conversation, crack a joke, smooth everything over before embarrassment ever had the chance to land. You protected me in subtle ways, like the world needed to behave a little better when I was standing next to you.

I still remember our first kiss.

You were working a show that night. The venue was emptying out, music still humming faintly through the walls. You had to get into the van soon, but before you left, you kept looking around like you were searching for someone.

Then you saw me walking outside.

The way you said my name in that moment still lives somewhere deep in my chest. Like you couldn’t leave without finding me first. Like the night wouldn’t have been finished until you said goodbye.

You walked straight over to me, pushed me gently back against the brick wall outside the venue, and kissed me.

To this day, that is the only kiss I can honestly say made my heart stop beating.

Everything went quiet. My knees started to buckle and you wrapped your arms around me tighter like you felt it too, like letting go wasn’t something either of us wanted to do just yet.

For a moment the whole world paused.

Moments like that make it easy to believe in something bigger than what reality eventually becomes.

You always told me not to celebrate your birthday.

Every year you’d say the same thing: don’t make a big deal out of it, don’t do anything special.

And every year I ignored you.

I’d show up with your favorite things anyway. Little surprises I knew would make you smile even if you tried to pretend you were annoyed.

There was always that tiny smile at the corner of your mouth when you realized what I had done. You’d shake your head like I hadn’t listened, but you never really hid how much it meant to you.

Like the year I surprised you in Chicago.

When you saw me, you looked at me like your brain couldn’t quite process what your eyes were seeing. Then suddenly you grabbed me, swept me completely off my feet into the biggest hug, laughing as you held me tight before kissing me like you were genuinely happy I had come all that way just to see you.

Another year later. Another birthday.

The year you were sick in St. Louis.

You probably thought that birthday would pass quietly, especially feeling as miserable as you were. But I couldn’t stand the thought of you sitting there alone.

So I showed up again.

I brought all your favorite snacks. I made you a little get-well care package so you wouldn’t forget to take care of yourself the way you always forgot to. Medicine, comfort food, small things I knew would make you feel better even if you tried to act like I was doing too much.

And just like always, you tried to pretend you were annoyed.

But that small smile always gave you away.

Then there was the other night in St. Louis.

We were working a show together and somehow I had ended up being your assistant for the night. You gave me so much crap about it, teasing me nonstop like the absolute little brat you could be sometimes.

But you were so silly about it that I couldn’t even pretend to be mad.

That same night it started snowing.

The roads were getting worse and I was getting ready to drive home anyway. But you wouldn’t hear it.

You literally took my keys and my phone right out of my hands.

Before I could even argue, you had already decided what was happening. You got us a hotel room because you didn’t want me driving in the snow.

And then you did something I’ll never forget.

You called my mom.

You told her not to worry, that you were taking care of me tonight and that I would be home in the morning.

I remember standing there listening to you explain it to her so calmly, like it was the most natural thing in the world for you to be the person making sure I was safe.

There’s another memory that still makes me smile.

That day on the streets of Chicago when a stranger looked at us and said, “You’ve got a beautiful wife. You’re a lucky man.”

You didn’t laugh it off.

You didn’t correct him.

You wrapped your arm around me and played along like pretending to be my husband came naturally to you. For a moment the world believed that story.

And if I’m honest… part of me believed it too.

Thank you for letting me see the parts of you that most people probably never noticed.

The way your face would light up when you talked about something you were passionate about. The quiet excitement in your voice when an idea grabbed hold of you. The way your expression softened when someone did something kind for you.

Especially the moments when you thought no one was watching.

Those moments felt honest.

And maybe that’s why letting go of you was never simple. Because I didn’t just fall for the man you showed the world.

I fell for the man you were in those quiet seconds when your guard slipped.

But love can’t live forever in moments.

It can’t grow in almosts, in maybes, in pieces of something that never fully becomes real.

The truth is, somewhere along those six years, I loved you more honestly than you ever loved me.

You kept me close when it was convenient. You told me you loved me, but you could never quite be honest about how you truly felt. I stayed longer than I should have because the moments we shared felt too real to walk away from.

Six years is a long time to hold onto someone who never fully chose you.

Still, I don’t regret loving you.

Because for six years you were the man whose name could light up my phone and make my whole day feel brighter. The man who could make me laugh until my stomach hurt. The man who made sure I never embarrassed myself in public.

The man who lifted me off my feet in Chicago.

The man who stole my keys during a snowstorm just to make sure I got home safe the next morning.

The man who kissed me against a brick wall in a way that made the whole world stop.

But you were also the man I eventually had to let go.

And the hardest part was never losing you.

The hardest part was letting go of the life I thought we might have someday.

So wherever life has taken you now, I hope it’s kind to you.

I hope someone surprises you on your birthday again.

I hope she reminds you to take care of yourself when you’re sick.

I hope she laughs at your jokes and gives them right back to you.

I hope she kisses you in a way that makes the whole world go quiet.

And if she ever loves you the way I did—

I hope this time you recognize it.

Because once, for six years, someone loved you in a way that would have never left.

Come closer. Sit down. We need to talk.

I’m arriving with ink on my hands and a spine that’s finally remembering how to stand tall. I’m not asking you to be gentle—life never learned that trick—but I am asking you to be honest, generous, and a little bit magical in that old-world way where effort meets fate halfway.

This is the year we do fewer things, better. The year discipline becomes devotion. The year routines turn into rituals—coffee brewed with intention, pages read like prayers, work done clean and finished. No more chaos disguised as personality. No more burnout worn like a badge. We’re romanticizing consistency now.

Bring me mornings that mean something. Evenings that feel earned. Bring me work that pays the bills and respects my time. Bring me projects that grow roots, not just sparks. I’ll meet you with follow-through, boundaries, and the kind of courage that shows up even when no one’s clapping.

Let this be the year I choose myself without apology and others without self-erasure. The year my body gets stronger, my mind gets quieter, and my joy stops asking for permission. The year I build instead of spiral. The year I finish what I start—books, goals, chapters, chapters of me.

And yes, 2026, I expect pleasure. Laughter that surprises me. Music that wrecks me a little. Love that feels steady instead of confusing. Rest that actually rests. If you try to hand me crumbs, I’ll pass. I know what a full plate looks like now.

I’ll do my part. I’ll show up early. I’ll tell the truth. I’ll keep going on the days it would be easier to disappear. I’ll honor the old wisdom—slow growth, honest work, earned pride—while still dreaming forward, eyes wide, heart lit.

So let’s make a deal:

You bring the opportunities.

I’ll bring the grit.

You bring the lessons.

I’ll bring the grace.

Make this the best year yet—not because it’s easy, but because it’s real.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the walls I built around your heart like armor, for every brick laid with fear and every stone cemented by disappointment. I know you didn’t mean to become this guarded, this jaded. I know deep down, you are still the same hopeless romantic who believes in slow kisses, deep connection, and forever kind of love.

You’ve been hurt. And instead of being held, you were used. Instead of being chosen, you were convenient. Instead of being seen for your whole soul, you were seen for what someone needed in a moment—and not for who you are in all your magic. That’s not fair. That’s not love. And you deserve more.

You are not a backup plan. You are not just a warm body when someone’s lonely. You are not a placeholder. You are the story someone should be proud to write their name into. You are someone’s dream come true—not their temporary fix.

And I know all you’ve ever really wanted is to love someone fully, and to be loved just as fiercely in return. To be someone’s first choice. The one they fight for, plan for, and show up for. That kind of love still exists, even if it hasn’t found you yet. But it will. It will, when you stop dimming your light to fit into someone else’s shadow. When you stop shrinking to fit into spaces that don’t celebrate you.

So I promise you this: I will stop treating your heart like it’s something to be ashamed of. I will stop apologizing for how deeply you feel, and how deeply you love. I will protect you, not by keeping people out, but by letting the right ones in.

You deserve tenderness, not confusion. Consistency, not crumbs. To be cherished, not tolerated.

And until that kind of love finds you, I’ll keep reminding you that you are enough. Always have been.

With all the love you’ve been waiting to receive,

I feel like I’m unraveling again. Like a frayed wire sparking and glitching, trying to function but barely holding itself together. Everything around me feels distant, like I’m watching my life through an old, static-filled TV screen—hazy, distorted, detached.

I know the signs. I feel myself slipping back into old habits, the ones I swore I wouldn’t return to. Ignoring messages, isolating, letting the dishes pile up, skipping meals or eating mindlessly. Numbness wrapping itself around me like a weighted blanket, but not the comforting kind—the suffocating one that pins me down. Even my escapes aren’t working. Books, the one thing that usually pulls me away from my own mind, aren’t hitting the same. I turn pages, I see the words, but they don’t sink in. The stories don’t reach me. Nothing does.

I don’t know if it’s exhaustion or if the darkness is creeping back in, sinking its claws into me, but I feel heavy. Hollow and heavy at the same time. A contradiction. A ball of static moving through the motions of life, buzzing but lifeless. I get up, I work, I exist—but I don’t live.

I see you. I see the exhaustion in your bones, the way your mind races, the way your heart feels like it’s carrying more weight than it was ever meant to bear. I see the way you fight every single day, showing up even when everything inside you is screaming to stop. You are tired, and I don’t blame you. You have been holding so much for so long.

I know it feels like you’re on the edge, like the ground beneath you is crumbling, like you’re bracing for the moment everything crashes down. And maybe—just maybe—you’re right there, teetering. But listen to me: this is not where your story ends.

I know you don’t have time to fall apart right now. You have responsibilities, dreams, people who rely on you. And it feels so unfair, doesn’t it? To carry so much and still not be able to set it down. But I need you to hear me—you are not alone in this. I am here. We are here. You are not weak for feeling like this. You are not failing because you’re struggling. You are human. And my love, you are doing your best.

I won’t lie to you—this is hard. It’s heavier than words can hold. But it will not last forever. This storm will pass, even if right now it feels endless. And when it does, you will still be here. You will still be standing. And you will be stronger for having survived it.

So breathe, my love. Let yourself rest when you can. Let yourself feel, even when it’s messy, even when it’s inconvenient. And when you can’t hold it together, let me hold you.

You are not breaking. You are bending, shifting, surviving. And no matter what, I will be here with you. Always.

With all the love and patience in the world,

You got me again, didn’t you? Always jumping in headfirst, attaching yourself to someone who was never really mine to hold. I get it—you’re eager, you want connection, and you see the best in people. But this time, you chose someone who wasn’t ready, someone who had their own healing to do.

I wish you had been a little more careful, a little more guarded. But that’s not who we are, is it? We feel deeply. And even though it hurts right now, I know this will pass. I’ll learn, I’ll grow, and next time, I’ll listen to my intuition a little more.

So, here’s the deal: let’s stop beating ourselves up about it. He wasn’t the one, and that’s okay. We’ll get through this together, one day at a time.

With love,

Dear Mr. Ambivalent,

Since we met, our connection has been like a thread woven with possibility - intriguing, intoxicating, but always just out of reach. You have a way of drawing me in, of lighting sparks with your words, your flirtations, and the glimpses you allow of something deeper. And yet, for all of that, I'm still on the outside looking in, unsure if I'll ever be allowed closer.

Your presence feels deliberate, your attention deliberate. You flirt with me like it's second nature, but what lies beneath that? Is it real? Is it more than a game? Because while I enjoy the way you make me feel in those moments, I can't live in them alone. I want to know if there's more to this than banter and chemistry - a foundation worth building on.

I'm not here to ask for what you cannot give. I"m here to ask for honesty. If this is just for fun, say so. If you feel something more, show me. Let me in just enough to see if this connection can become something real, something worth pursuing.

But if you cannot - or if you won't - then I will step away. Not because I don't feel something for you, but because I can't stay in this space where the lines between us remain so blurred. I deserve clarity, and I deserve to be more than just a source of fleeting attention.

You've captured my curiosity, and maybe even my heart. But I need more than clever words and distant attention. I need something grounded, something mutual. If you're willing, I'll meet you there. If not, I'll walk away with my head high and my heart open to what's next.

With hope and strength,

Ashley <3