A quiet moment that changed nothing on the outside—but everything underneath. We weren’t fighting. But we weren’t flowing, either.
It happened a long time ago, yet it still returns to me now and then—a gentle reminder, an invitation to reflect.
You know those mornings—where the energy feels… off? Nothing dramatic, just the quiet ache of disconnection. You pass each other like coworkers in a busy hallway: efficient, polite, distant. You talk about breakfast, the kids, and what time someone’s leaving. And yet, beneath the surface, something feels like it’s slipping.
"I felt myself retreating and not with anger. Just with self-protection."
In the past, when things felt foggy between us, I tended to disappear inward. Not loudly. Just enough to stop reaching. And he was quiet too. Not withdrawn, but holding something I couldn’t see. Maybe tired. Maybe even tangled in his own thoughts. We moved around the kitchen like that.
Carefully.
Trying not to bump into each other...not physically, but emotionally. And then it came, gentle and unexpected, like a whisper dropped in:
"You’re not against each other.
You are just tender in different places.
You’re still on the same team."
I stood still. And something in me softened. I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten that love doesn’t always look like affection and harmony. Sometimes it looks like two people doing their best in the noise of life, trying to stay connected through the fog of fatigue, the weight of responsibility, the rawness of being human.
So I reached out. I just placed my hand gently on his back. Not to fix anything. Not to start a conversation. Just to remind us both:
"I’m here. I still like you. I still choose you."
He paused. Nothing dramatic. Just a pause. But the whole room felt different after that. Like we both remembered who we were.
What it showed me:
Healing doesn’t always happen in big, emotional moments. Sometimes it’s just in the quiet choice not to close. To reach instead. To soften when you want to shut down. To remember that you’re still walking in the same direction, even if it doesn’t feel perfectly in sync that day.
We’re not here to win. We’re here to stay close.
And sometimes, that closeness starts again with something as small as a hand on a back. A breath.
At the end of all this, is there someone in your life you’ve quietly drifted from? Not because of conflict, but because life got heavy?
The days filled up. The heart grew tired. Maybe it’s your partner. Maybe a friend, a sibling, a parent. Maybe even… yourself.
If someone comes to mind, let that thought be gentle. You don’t need the perfect words or a big moment to begin again. Sometimes healing begins with presence—with a small reach, a quiet message, a soft glance that says, “I’m still here.”
Because in the end, we’re not here to win. We’re here to stay close. And maybe today is a good day to come a little closer.
--From Olga’s collection of personal "Relationship Healings"
Add comment
Comments