We grow up with the belief—fed by stories, society, and sometimes even our own dreams—that there’s someone out there meant for us. A partner. A family. A person who will always be there, ready to listen, to hold us when things fall apart.

But life doesn’t always unfold that way.

Sometimes, at any age or stage, we find ourselves standing alone. Not because we’ve done something wrong, but because that’s just how things are in that moment. Friends are busy, family is distant or nonexistent, relationships change or never arrive. And there we are—still breathing, still needing comfort, still craving a soft place to land.

The truth is, it hurts. It’s lonely. It’s upsetting. Not having someone to turn to, to hug, to say, “I see you, I’ve got you.”

And yet, in that same space, something else quietly emerges: the realization that we are still here, often being that person for others. Showing up, listening, giving, holding space—while inwardly wishing someone would do the same for us.

It’s a strange kind of strength. One that doesn’t make headlines. It’s tender, weary, but powerful. It’s the quiet resilience of those who love without always being loved back in the ways they need.

I don’t have a neat ending for this. Maybe it’s enough to say it out loud, to name the ache, and to remind anyone who’s feeling this too—you’re not the only one. And maybe, just maybe, in saying it, we’ll find our people, or become the people we’ve been looking for.