There is a particular kind of sorrow that comes from loving someone who is still in the middle of becoming.
It isn’t loud.
It doesn’t make a scene.
It’s the kind of ache you carry while washing dishes or staring out a window — the feeling of watching choices unfold that you would not make yourself, while knowing, deep down, that the choosing was never yours to do.
That knowing doesn’t always bring peace. Sometimes it brings restlessness. Love starts shifting in its seat. Looking for something to do with its hands.
Not because danger is always near.
Sometimes simply because the waiting has gone on a long time.
So we tell ourselves we’re helping.
That we’re protecting.
That staying close means staying faithful.
And sometimes that’s true.
Other times, if we’re honest, we’re just trying to ease our own discomfort. Trying to quiet the unease that comes from loving without leverage. From standing near a river we cannot redirect, hoping that if we lean hard enough, the current might listen.
People have been noticing this about themselves for as long as stories have been told. Long enough that nearly every old tradition has something to say about it. Different words, same recognition: love can slip into control without ever meaning to. Care can quietly put on armor.
Real change doesn’t seem to arrive because someone else managed it well. It comes when something inside finally loosens. When the grip softens. When the season turns — not on command, but in its own time. Which is rarely the schedule we had in mind.
That’s usually where I find myself sitting with the question.
Not whether love is strong enough.
But whether it can stay open without closing into a fist.
There’s a moment — familiar, if you’ve been here — where love stands at a threshold. Where it has to decide whether it will keep watch behind armor shaped by old wounds, or step back a little. Not because the world has become safe, but because what’s needed now can’t be done through force or vigilance.
I don’t have answers for this. Just company.
Can we stay present without managing?
Can we remain connected without trying to redeem?
Can we let another person walk their road without reading it as a judgment on who we’ve been or what we’ve failed to do?
Some seasons seem to ask less effort and more listening.
Less tightening.
More trust.
The pondering:
Where in your life might love be tired — not of caring, but of holding itself so tightly — and quietly wondering what it would be like to rest?
