36. If I Make It Through the Night

The text came in out of nowhere — a message from someone I’d barely spoken to in years.

“Hey. I’m sorry if this is out of the blue… I may not have a lot of time left.”

By the second line, my chest was tight. By the third, I was already halfway out of my mind with worry. I was ready to call in to work, ready to drive wherever I needed to go if it meant getting to him before he did something irreversible. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t been close in years. It didn’t matter that our lives had only recently re-crossed paths. My instinct was immediate and absolute: go.

Later, I learned he wasn’t saying goodbye. He was sick. He might need a kidney transplant.

The relief hit, but it carried company: frustration, confusion, and something else I didn’t expect — a flicker of pride I didn’t want to admit to. Because buried inside his message, amid the fear and apology, was a confession: “You’re the person I compare every woman to.”

It’s a strange thing — how even in a moment meant for gravity, our hearts can seize on flattery. I’d be lying if I said that line didn’t echo in me for a while. It’s both embarrassing and telling: how words can still slip past my reason and nest somewhere soft and foolish.

There’s a part of me that loves my own instinct — that I would drop everything, that I would drive through the night for someone I’m not close to, that compassion can still override all caution. I am grateful that my heart has not grown cold.

But there’s another part, a quieter, watchful part, that scorns how easily I can let affirmation blur into validation. How quickly I can start weaving meaning out of words that were probably written in fear or nostalgia rather than devotion. I know my love language makes me susceptible to that kind of intoxication. Words of affirmation have always been both balm and bait for me.

And so I’m left sitting in the tension — proud of my heart, wary of my ego. Thankful that I’m not numb, but aware that I still crave being chosen, even when it’s misplaced.

I don’t know what his future holds, or if he’ll ever reach out again. But I know what the moment showed me:
That goodness and vanity can coexist in the same heartbeat.
That selflessness isn’t always pure, and affection isn’t always innocent.
That being human means learning to hold both truth and tenderness without letting either consume you.

- Cheesecake

35. To Be Loved is to be Known

What does it really mean to be loved?
So often, we think of love as a feeling; it’s a rush of warmth, a spark of affection. But at its core, love goes far deeper. You know that saying, “to be loved is to be known”? I think that there’s such truth and beauty in that. To be truly known is to be loved.

When someone genuinely loves you, they take the time to learn who you are. They notice the small things: your likes, your dislikes, your quirks, your dreams. They pay attention to your moods: when you're hurting, when you're happy, when you need silence, and when you need a hug. Love, when it’s real, takes the shape of intentional knowing.

I think about all the people I love and how knowing them shapes my love in action. I can order food for my coworker when she’s too overwhelmed to decide for herself, remembering that she’s been craving apple juice during her pregnancy and always wants a certain sauce with her chicken tenders. I can offer my grieving friend the exact kind of comfort she needs as she mourns the loss of her grandmother. I can speak an encouraging word to a friend standing on the brink of a big decision, knowing just what will give her courage.

These moments might seem small, but they’re rooted in something profound: love that sees, listens, and remembers. Because love without action bears no fruit. And if those who claim to love us don’t take the time to know us, how can we truly believe we are loved?

This thought leads me to ponder the goodness of the Lord. How deeply and intimately does He know us? Scripture tells us He formed our innermost parts and knit us together in our mother’s womb. He knows our thoughts before we think them. He understands our feelings, our hopes, our dreams; He even knows the parts of ourselves we haven’t fully grasped.

If I, in my human limitations, can know and love my friends deeply, how much greater is God’s love for me? His knowledge of us is not limited or surface-level. It is vast, personal, and unwavering. And not only does He know me this way; He knows everyone with that same depth and intentionality.

What a profound realization: in this enormous, chaotic world, there is a God who sees me. He knows my name, my heart, my story. To be loved is to be known, and I am known by a great God.

May we rest in the wonder of being fully known — and fully loved — by Him.

- Cheesecake

34. The Light’s Still On

If you’ve been following this little trail of blog posts, you’ll remember that not long ago I wrote one called “Alaska Didn’t Heal Me.” It was raw. Confused. Still asking questions that had no shape, much less answers. But something has shifted since then.

Recently, C and I had the kind of conversation that I used to imagine having a hundred times. The one where you just say it all. And somehow, we actually did. We laid everything out on the table. I said things I didn’t think I’d ever get to say. He responded with clarity and kindness, and there wasn’t any lingering confusion or false hope—just a calm kind of closure.

And you know what?

It feels like I can finally breathe again.

Not in a fairytale way, not in a “we wrapped it up with a bow and now we’re best friends” kind of way. But in a real, human, we finally said the things that needed to be said and now I’m not carrying it alone anymore kind of way.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel trapped in limbo. I don’t feel like I’m constantly scanning a room or a message or a prayer for some hint of his feelings. I’m not stuck waiting for someone who isn’t reaching back. I’m not drowning in the what-ifs.

But here’s the complicated truth:

We still have each other’s locations.

It’s a tiny icon on my phone, one that most people wouldn’t think twice about. But to me, it’s the last string still tied. I don’t check it like I used to. I don’t spiral when I see him somewhere without me. But I haven’t turned it off either.

Because while I am moving on—while I’m laughing more, feeling lighter, even imagining myself with someone else someday—there’s still this small, quiet part of me that waits.

That watches. That wonders. And yes, that hopes.

Not in a desperate or delusional way. Not in a “I’m stuck here until he wants me” way. Just… a stillness. A softness. A part of me that’s willing to be received if he ever turned around and said, “Come back.”

That piece of me isn’t broken. She’s not obsessed. She’s just honest.

And in some strange way, I think both can be true: I can be mostly healed and moving forward and still have a little room in my heart that’s reserved. A quiet space where the light is still on.

I think that’s what it means to truly love someone with open hands. I’m not gripping the past. I’m not standing in the doorway. But I am saying: If one day you choose me, I’ll still be here. And I’ll be whole.

That’s the grace I want to walk in.

So maybe this is the chapter where I’m no longer hoping for a rewrite—just grateful for the growth. I’m not stuck in grief. I’m just standing in peace… while keeping one soft, silent prayer tucked behind my ribs.

And I think this might be the last post I write about him—at least, in the way I have been. The kind filled with aching questions, with longing that won’t settle, with wondering if the story still had somewhere to go. He may still be mentioned now and then, because he’s been part of this season. But this—this is me turning the page.

Because even if he never comes back, I will still have a life to live. And I intend to live it well. I’m not frozen in the doorway anymore.

That said… I think part of me will always keep a light on.

Not as a shrine to the past, not as some desperate beacon of hope. Just as a quiet sign:
If ever you find yourself missing home, you’ll know where to look.

And if he never does, that’s okay too. The porch light will grow dim. The memories will soften. The girl who used to wait will find other things to wait for.

But for now, the door is closed. The light is on. And I’m walking forward.

- Cheesecake

33. Alaska Didn’t Heal Me

I went to Alaska praying for a sign. Something from God, something from the universe—anything to tell me if C was still mine or if I needed to let go. I asked for clarity. I begged for it.

What I got instead was Alaska itself—wild, messy, unpredictable. A landscape that mirrors exactly how I feel inside.

Because there were moments. God, there were moments.
Him flicking my hair in the van, pulling me against his chest on a crowded train. The way he sat on the floor during my panic attack, cheek pressed to mine, whispering steady breaths until I calmed down. A dandelion handed to me like an apology. A table at a pizza party where he said, “Follow me,” and I did without thinking. Little things that felt like everything. Little things that kept me hooked.

And then there were the other moments. The pullback. The way he admitted he was “too friendly,” as if that explained away all the ways I felt seen and chosen again, only to be reminded I wasn’t. The final conversation where he told me what I didn’t want to hear: he isn’t making plans to get back together. He isn’t in a place to be in a relationship at all.

It was honesty. The honesty I said I wanted.
And it was a sucker punch straight to the gut.

Because here’s the truth: I don’t want just honesty. I want him. I want the closeness, the spark, the way he always knows what to do when I’m unraveling. I want the boy who whispered steady breaths into my panic and handed me flowers three days late just because he remembered. I want the boy who sat with me for an hour in my car, laying back the seat until it felt like we were almost lying side by side again.

And I can’t have him.

Alaska didn’t give me a sign. It didn’t hand me peace. It gave me silence where I wanted answers. Distance where I wanted closeness. And the kind of clarity that only makes the longing sharper: he doesn’t want what I want.

So here I am, left with the ache. The ache of knowing he was too close for me to ever be okay with “just friends.” The ache of admitting that I still would’ve said yes, every time, if he had asked me to try again. The ache of having to move forward when my heart keeps running backward.

I prayed for clarity. I got heartbreak. Maybe that’s the same thing.

- Cheesecake

32. The Spaces Between Us

People keep asking if C and I are still dating.
Every time I say no, it’s like tripping on the same crack in the sidewalk—tiny, but enough to jolt you. I smile, I make it sound like a fact without weight, but inside I feel the shift. I hate that I can no longer say, “Yeah, we’re together.” I hate that the truth now has a before and after.

Since the breakup, we’ve had these moments—small, ordinary, almost meaningless to anyone else—but they pull at me. Moments that feel like they belong to the before.

A couple weeks ago, I called him about some leftover sandwiches from camp. He could’ve just told me to drop them off another time. Instead, he offered to leave me his key. I told him I didn’t want him driving all that way just for me, but he came anyway. When we met, I was checking my car’s oil, and before I could even figure out the dipstick, he was there beside me, sleeves metaphorically rolled up, telling me what to do. I said I could figure it out. He gave me that look—half amusement, half knowing better—and I laughed, already caving. We drove to QuikTrip together, bought oil, and he filled it up for me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

We stood there talking about his life—how he might step back from seminary to focus on music, how my parents have been—and I was aware, the whole time, of how easy it was. How the air between us felt like home. When we finally said goodbye, he gave me a side hug that wasn’t really a side hug at all—my head tucked toward his neck, both of us leaning in longer than necessary. We talked again, said goodbye again, and that second hug lasted even longer. Fifteen seconds of quiet. Fifteen seconds of remembering.

Then there was the afternoon at Lazy Lab. He bought sandwich fixings and brought me one—with toasted bread and two slices of mango, because “whatever his heart desired” apparently meant caring enough to make it good. Later, when panic started pressing in on me, I left the building and sat in my car. He followed, saw me curled up, and slid into the passenger seat without a word. He rubbed my back and shoulders until the shaking started to ease. We stayed there for over an hour, just talking nonsense, seats reclined like we were lying next to each other in bed again. That long, warm side hug when he finally left was the kind of thing that doesn’t feel casual, no matter what name you give it.

And then, last week, Lord of the Rings night. Bible study, the whole group together. I thought I was fine—until I wasn’t. Panic clawed its way up, quick and sharp. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t make a show of it. He just moved, sat on the floor next to me, his hand warm on my leg, then my arm. Slow, steady circles. When my breathing stayed shallow, he pulled me closer, his cheek pressed against mine, his mouth by my ear.

And then I could hear him breathing. Deep, steady. For me. He wanted me to match him, to borrow his rhythm. I did.

That’s what brought me out of it—not logic, not space, but him. Close enough that I could feel the quiet calm in his body and let it pull me back into my own. When it passed, he didn’t leave. He stayed until he was sure. Walked me to my car, even though he didn’t have to.

I’ve been turning that over in my mind ever since. I keep thinking about that night, about all of it—how he knows before I say a word, how he steps in without asking if it’s “his place,” how he stays after the moment passes just to make sure. How he always makes sure.

And I don’t know how to let go of that. I don’t know how to stop wanting it. I don’t know how to stop wanting him.

It’s not just missing a relationship. It’s missing him in that role. Missing the way it felt to be known so well that he could see me unraveling before I’d even pulled a thread. And I think that’s what scares me the most—how easily he still reads me, and how much I still want to be read.

31. Do You Wanna Try Again?

We were back at it—same grocery store, same text exchange. I asked C if he wanted me to grab food again for church, and he said he’d meet me there. I gave a time. He beat me to it, which, let’s be honest, is wildly off-brand for him. But hey, miracles happen.

So we walked the aisles together again. It’s becoming a strange little ritual, the kind that feels normal and sacred all at once. It’s not dating. It’s not distance. It’s something in between—a soft limbo with snack options.

Afterward, we chatted in the parking lot for ten minutes. Not because we had to, but because we could. Because being near each other still feels familiar—like breathing in a place you used to live.

Then church.
Then Bible study.
Then pickleball.
Then swimming. (Yes. It was a full day. Yes. I wore a bikini. Yes. I looked smokin’. Yes. This becomes relevant.)

Now, I wasn’t exactly paying close attention to C the whole time. I couldn’t. I would not allow myself to ogle the suddenly shirtless hottie in front of me, so I focused on the other people and tried to enjoy the day. I was mostly successful… but he’s hot. Sue me. Anyway, I think the feeling was mutual, because I definitely caught him passing a few glances my way.

And then came the Junebug moment. I found one crawling on the ground and picked it up. It promptly struck a dramatic little bug yoga pose on my hand, and out loud I asked why it was doing that. Without missing a beat, C said: “It probably thinks you’re cute.”

At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. But later, my friend—who’s known C for a while—said, “He would never say that to me.”

And it hit me: He said it easily. Casually. But that wasn’t nothing. That was a soft opening. A safe way to say something real without the risk of it echoing.

Later, we were talking about hammocks and how there was a spot nearby where they could be hung. C made a passing comment that he had his hammock in the car, and I said, “Oh, I have mine too.”

Without missing a beat, he said: “I could string them both up… and we could… not lay together.” Then he laughed awkwardly and added, “Just so everyone knows that we wouldn’t be laying together.”

Here’s the thing: no one was listening to our conversation. And even if we had hung up both hammocks, no one would’ve assumed anything. Our friends know us well enough. So... who exactly was he clarifying that for? Because you don’t rush to draw a line unless part of you noticed how close that line almost got crossed. You don’t clarify what you’re not doing unless a tiny part of you considered it—even if only for a second.

Later on, during a quieter moment, he asked what I’d been up to that week. Just casual catching up—until he added: “I noticed you were in Augusta the other day.” And I froze a little. Because… how would he know that?

We still have each other’s locations from when we dated. It started for safety reasons—he wanted to be able to find me in case something happened with my health and I couldn’t call him. But after the breakup, we never turned it off. So yeah, he still has mine. I still have his.

And there are only two ways to see someone’s location on an iPhone:

1. You open the Find My app.

2. You open the text thread and check under their name.

That’s it.

I didn’t get to Augusta until 9:30 p.m. I left around 9:30 a.m. the next day. I was there for twelve hours. Eight of those, I was asleep.

So… he looked. And then—whether he meant to or not—he told me.

It wasn’t a big moment on the outside. But it landed with that quiet weight—the kind that only registers when someone gives themselves away just a little. You don’t notice someone’s location unless you care. You don’t mention it unless some part of you wants them to know you were looking.

As the day wrapped up, we started saying our goodbyes. I gave a couple friends front hugs. Then I got to C, and just as I reached for him, I panicked. Oh right. Side hugs only. We’ve established this. So I awkwardly twisted mid-hug into some kind of half-frontal, half-side disaster. Probably the worst hug I’ve ever given. Maybe the worst hug anyone’s ever given.

But C didn’t flinch. He held on anyway. Didn’t let go. We all laughed. And then, through the laughter, he looked at me and said: “Do you wanna try again?”

We were talking about a hug.
But my heart heard something else.

Because the truth is—I do. I would.

I’d try again in a heartbeat. Try the long drives, the phone calls, the quiet Sundays. Try grocery store conversations and coffee we never finished. Try to be softer, braver, more myself.

But I know that’s not what he meant. It was just a hug. Just a joke. Just a moment.

Still… that moment stayed with me.

Because maybe the saddest thing about all of this is how close we still are—Close enough for inside jokes and accidental touches and soft compliments wrapped in bug metaphors—But not close enough to say what we’re really feeling.

So no, I didn’t say it out loud. I just nodded and laughed and gave him the hug. But if he had asked me differently—really asked—The answer would’ve been yes.

Yes, I want to try again.

Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s scary.

But for now, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep laughing at weird hugs and catching my breath in the in-between. I’ll keep listening for the unsaid things, the tiny moments that speak louder than they should.

And if he ever really means it—If he ever looks me in the eye and asks, not as a joke, but as a choice—

Then yes.
I’ll try again.
Every time.

Call me lovesick. Call me foolish. Call me whatever you want.

But I know what my heart wants, and unfortunately, all it wants right now is him.

- Cheesecake

30. Dumpster Fire

It started with a grocery run. A simple, ordinary task. I offered to grab food for church since I pass by the store. “Just sandwich stuff,” C said. Copy that.

But there I was, standing in the deli aisle torn between turkey and ham (don’t ask how long I debated—meat-based existential crises are real), when I heard footsteps behind me.

It was him. C.

I blinked like a glitchy NPC. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged with that familiar, boyish half-smile. Said he got to church and realized he didn’t know how literally I’d taken “just sandwich stuff,” so he came to grab fruit and drinks.

Spoiler: I already had fruit. I know how to feed a group. But instead of texting me, calling me, or, I don’t know, trusting me, he drove to the store. Why? No idea. But there he was, holding sparkling water like he was in an indie rom-com and aisle six was our meet-cute.

So we shopped together. Briefly. Casually. Silently familiar.

Church came next. We sat beside each other again. No assigned seating, but somehow we always end up shoulder-to-shoulder like clockwork. Then Bible study. The conversation hit deeper than usual—the kind that feeds your soul and not just your ego. Everyone had something good to say, which, let’s be real, doesn’t always happen. But this time? Beautifully weighted words, one after the other. Like dominoes with depth.

As the day grew old and the time together was coming to an end, we stepped outside and the air hit different—thick, hot. And then we saw it: smoke curling into the sky.

A literal dumpster fire.
You can’t make this stuff up.

Apparently, someone decided to baptize the church dumpster with hot coals (spoiler again: don’t do that). Flames were licking trees, smoke was curling into the sky, and we stood there—me, C, a friend, a few bystanders—watching the fire crew work, the smoke rise, the blaze crackle.

As I stood there, all I could think was: If that’s not the world’s most heavy-handed metaphor, I don’t know what is.

I could laugh.

There C and I stood, side by side, watching a pile of forgotten things burst into flames. It was the most accurate representation of us I’ve ever seen.

Our relationship: a slow burn that flared too fast, too bright, and then crumbled to ash. And here we are again, standing in the aftermath.

Still here. Still watching. Still trying to make sense of it all. Together.

After it all quieted down, everyone left except us. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said. Which, for C, meant hopping in his truck and driving slowly beside me as I walked. “You’re walking too fast,” he called. So I slowed to match his pace. Like I always do.

When we reached my car, he parked. Got out. He didn’t have to. But he did.

We stood next to each other. Talked. Laughed. I noticed something in his eye and helped him get it out, which sounds insignificant but felt oddly… tender. The kind of moment that sneaks up on you and leaves a bruise.

Then came the side hug. Long enough to feel like a pause button. Soft enough to sting. And something passed between us. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just me, projecting emotions like it’s my part-time job. But it felt like something.

A pause. A flicker. A breath between two people who once held everything and now hold nothing, but still keep holding.

Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe I’m just starved for closure that never quite finishes closing. But something passed between us in that moment, and I can’t stop replaying it.

Here’s the thing: I’m stuck on him. Hopelessly, maddeningly, humiliatingly stuck. He’s the song I can’t skip. The book I keep rereading, hoping for a different ending. And maybe I’m delusional. Maybe I’m just standing in the ashes trying to sculpt meaning out of wreckage. But I swear—something sparked again. Not a blaze this time. Not the wildfire we once were. Just… a flicker.

And maybe that’s worse. Because now I’m left standing in the wake of it all, sifting through the soot, wondering: Did he feel it too? Or am I just the girl still staring at a dumpster fire long after it’s been put out—waiting for it to light back up, just once more?

All I know is this: Sometimes love ends not with slamming doors or screaming matches, but with slow walks beside cars and long side hugs and jokes in grocery aisles. Sometimes the ache doesn’t scream—it simmers. Sometimes the goodbye doesn’t sound like goodbye at all. It just sounds like, “You’re walking too fast.” And you, like a fool, slow down.

- Cheesecake

29. Awaiting With Bated Breath

Man, healing is hard. There’s nothing quite like grieving someone who is still alive. You ever heard that? Grieving someone who is still alive. Grieving someone who’s still breathing and probably eating snacks somewhere and laughing with friends. Talk about a sucker punch to the gut. I mean, geez, what a staunch statement. And yet here I am living it out! I’m grieving C.

Last I talked about him, I was doing really well. And I was. But now, I’m back in a bit of a funk. I’m back in a low. Healing isn’t linear, remember? Just when I thought I was making progress, BAM, I fall into a valley. Welcome to the roller coaster of a lifetime!!! It’s hard.

I’ve been doing some reflecting on C, the relationship, and the potential reasons for why I am still so stuck. Why I can’t just “move on,” even though I know we aren’t together anymore. It’s not just that I miss him, though I do. I miss the way he made space for my emotions, the way he read me so intuitively, the way he asked hard questions and stayed to hear the answers. I miss how safe I felt emotionally and physically around him. I miss feeling known.

I remember how I would tell C that I was “awaiting with bated breath” for him. It usually meant I was excited to see him soon but had to suffer through some wait time first. It was such a hopeful phrase back then, you know? Full of anticipation and promise. That feeling of excitement for him to come, for me to see him, and maybe, just maybe for us to become.

But now, in this grief, that phrase feels heavier. The breath I hold is heavier, the waiting longer, and the silence louder. I miss what we didn’t get the chance to grow into.

I miss the parts of myself I never got to fully share: the goofy, carefree version that never quite emerged because I was so focused on being mature, sophisticated, and “worthy” (whatever that means). I miss the spiritual depth I hoped we’d build together. I miss the little rituals we never got to form, the inside jokes we never created, the quiet mornings we never shared.

I miss him.

But I’m also grieving the possibility of him—the version of us that might have existed if we’d had more time. If only we’d had more time… Then things would be different, right? Right?! *Sigh* Sometimes I get stuck in the land of “what ifs”. What if we had more time? What if I made more of an effort to be my truest self with him? What if he actually allowed himself to feel things? What if he just enjoyed being in a relationship with me? What if he stopped overthinking everything? What if he tried harder to pursue me? What if I held him to higher expectations and raised the bar? What if I made it so that he had to actually TRY, instead of being the perfect person I thought I knew he needed? What if? It’s a dangerous game to play, my friends.

But here’s what I’m learning: sometimes healing means sitting with those what-ifs and those pains without needing to fix or answer them. It means giving myself grace to feel lost, confused, angry, or sad and knowing that those feelings don’t define my future. It means trusting that God’s story for me is still unfolding, and His plan is better than any “what if” I can imagine.

Now, the phrase “awaiting with bated breath” takes on a new meaning for me in this season. Instead of awaiting anxiously for a relationship or a person, I’m learning to await God’s timing with hope and trust. To hold my breath in awe and expectation of His faithfulness rather than in fear or longing. To breathe in the peace that surpasses understanding, even when the future feels uncertain. I'm trying to learn how to lean into this new kind of waiting with open hands, a hopeful heart, and a faith that believes better things are coming. Because healing isn’t about forgetting or rushing forward. It’s about walking step by step through the valley, knowing the light is ahead— even when I can’t see it yet.

Because maybe the healing isn't in the answer...
Maybe it's in the breath I finally exhale.

- Cheesecake

28. Last Bell Blues

Today is the last day of school.
And I am not okay.

I knew this day would come. I just didn’t expect it to feel like this—a strange blend of pride, heartbreak, gratitude, and the very real urge to duct tape my students to their desks so they never leave. (I didn’t. Legal reasons. But I thought about it.)

The tears started early—not just mine, but theirs too. Red eyes, shaky voices, long hugs that said everything words couldn’t. I looked at their faces—some still baby-faced, others suddenly grown—and thought, how do you say goodbye to the ones who got you through your hardest year?

Because these weren’t just any students. These were my students. My very first class. The kids who made me a teacher. The ones who saw me as I tried to figure out how to juggle lesson plans, grading, middle school chaos, and being a college student all at once. The ones who witnessed my triumphs, my stress-snacking, and my “I need everyone to STOP TALKING RIGHT NOW” moments. And they loved me anyway.

They encouraged me when I felt like I was failing. They were patient with me when I ran out of patience for them. They offered grace, laughter, and so much kindness—even when they were also just trying to figure life out at 13 and 14 years old. I’m pretty sure they taught me more this year than I taught them.

And now… it’s over. They’re really gone. No more daily chaos, no more “Miss, you didn’t grade my project yet,” no more rogue pencil wars or existential hallway questions like “How do you know if you actually love someone?”

I want to hold onto every little moment—the funny inside jokes, the “Miss, you look tired” (gee, thanks), the times they stayed after class just to chat, the “lightbulb” moments when something finally clicked, and the quiet, sweet “thank you’s” I’ll carry forever.

They have been my joy, my motivation, my little chaos-makers who somehow made my classroom the most sacred space in my life this year.

And today, I let them go.

So here I sit—proud, emotionally wrecked, and already missing them—with mascara smudged halfway to my chin and a heart that’s never been more full.

My first year is ending. But what a beginning it’s been.

- Cheesecake

27. Goodbye to My Babies

On the day after my own graduation (I feel no different, but it went well — I walked across the stage without tripping, so that’s a win), I find myself facing something far more emotional: the day of my 8th graders' graduation. And friends… I am not okay.

As the hours tick down to their big ceremony, I’m sitting here watching their 8th grade slideshow (good job Ms. P. You put your blood, sweat, and tears into that video and it is just perfect) trying to process the fact that these kids — my kids — are about to leave middle school behind. These aren’t just any students. These are my first ever students. My OG crew, my trial run, my training wheels. They were tiny little chaos goblins with oversized backpacks, unfiltered thoughts, and the attention span of goldfish. They are the ones who broke me in, taught me how to be a teacher (and occasionally how to survive on caffeine, prayer, and sheer willpower), and somehow managed to teach me just as much as I hoped to teach them. And now they’re leaving me???

Rude.

I love these kids more than words can say. I say it all the time — usually to anyone who will listen — that I love them so much, I don’t know how I could possibly love my own children more. (My future children are going to have a complex, but that’s their therapist’s problem. Kidding…) These students are truly little lights in my life. They’ve burrowed their way into my heart with their weird jokes, unfiltered observations, chaotic hallway energy, and surprising moments of deep wisdom. These kids have turned my classroom into a home, and teaching them has been the greatest joy and honor of my life.

Over the past year, I’ve watched them grow not just academically, but as human beings — kinder, more thoughtful, more resilient (and occasionally more dramatic, but that’s middle school). I’ve become their teacher, yes, but also a confidant. A listening ear. A life coach. A nurse. A cheerleader. A safe place. A “trusted adult” (which is humbling because I still Google how to boil eggs), and even the one who yells “STOP TOUCHING EACH OTHER” or “WATCH YOUR MOUTH” at least sixteen times a day. I am so fulfilled in this job, it’s almost suspicious. Like surely someone is going to come take it away from me and say, “Okay, fun’s over, you don’t get to love your job this much.”

Every single day in this role feels like a mission field. Every morning, I pray that I can show them Jesus — not just in my lessons or advice, but in how I speak to them, how I listen, how I respond when they forget every direction I just gave 14 seconds ago. Some days I succeed. Some days I don’t. But every day, I try. I’ve tried to love them like He does. To show up with grace when they don’t deserve it, to speak truth into their identity when they’re doubting it, and to create a space where they know they are seen, safe, and so incredibly loved.

And now… I have to let them go? Excuse me, who approved this???

I have to smile and wave while they toss their graduation caps and walk straight into high school? How do I do that without sobbing in a corner and handing out laminated advice cards with “I’M ALWAYS HERE IF YOU NEED A SNACK OR A LIFE TALK” written on them? I’m not ready. I’m not ready to walk past their desks in August and see unfamiliar faces. I’m not ready to not hear their jokes (even the terrible ones). I’m not ready to say goodbye to the students who made me fall in love with teaching. And yet… here we are.

They are ready. They’re smart. They’re capable. They’re full of personality, potential, and just the right amount of middle school weirdness to take on high school like champs. They’re more ready than they realize. I’ve seen them grow into such capable, thoughtful, funny, weirdly confident young people. They’ve weathered challenges, taken ownership of their growth, and risen far above where they started.

And I’m so. incredibly. proud.

I’ve seen them through tough days, big wins, heartbreaks, and hilarious middle school drama that could rival any Netflix teen series. I’ve cheered them on when they doubted themselves. I’ve prayed for them, cried over them, and laughed with them until my stomach hurt. I’ve watched them become people — real people — and I’m not exaggerating when I say they’ve changed my life.

There are no words that feel big enough for this moment. I am proud beyond belief. Proud of their growth, their grit, their humor, and their courage. Proud of the people they’re becoming. Proud to have played even a small role in their journey.

To my sweet 8th graders: I hope you always remember your worth. I hope you chase after truth and goodness and kindness. I hope you laugh loudly, love deeply, and never forget where you came from (aka, your favorite middle school teacher). You will always be my firsts. My babies. My chaos crew. The class that showed me what it means to really teach.

I’ll miss you more than words can say, but I’ll be cheering you on every step of the way.

I love you more than I ever thought was possible.

Go be great, kids.

P.S. If you ever want to stop by and say hi, my door is always open.

Love you, mean it.

- Cheesecake

26. Graduation Eve (For me at least)

It’s Graduation Eve.

Which means tomorrow, I will wear a polyester gown (that definitely feels like it was designed to trap heat and humble me), walk across a stage in slightly-too-loud shoes, and accept a piece of paper that says, “You did it!” (but in fancier font).

Tonight, though? I’m in my feelings.

It’s a weird mix of emotions. I’m proud, yes. But also a little confused. Like… how did we get here so fast? One minute I’m a sleep-deprived freshman trying to figure out how Canvas works, and the next I’m ordering graduation regalia like I’m dressing for a Hogwarts spinoff.

Let’s be clear: this degree didn’t come easy. It was earned through late nights, group projects that tested my sanctification, caffeine-fueled breakdowns, and more personal growth than I ever planned on having.

There were seasons I didn’t think I’d make it — not because I couldn’t, but because the weight felt so heavy. But I did. I stayed. I kept showing up even when I wasn’t sure why or how. That counts for something.

Actually, that counts for everything.

And now, here we are. On the edge of “what’s next,” wondering if “adulthood” comes with an instruction manual or if we’re all just winging it in fancier clothes. (Spoiler: we are 100% winging it.)

There’s a quiet kind of grief tonight, too — for the version of me who started this journey not knowing if she could finish it. For the friendships that shaped me. For the younger me who once dreamed of this day and would be SO proud to see me here now.

And hey, future me? You better be clapping loud. I worked for this.

So tonight, I sit with the stillness. The gratitude. The mascara that’s probably about to smudge.

Tomorrow, I’ll wear the cap, flip the tassel, and act like I didn’t just cry in my car on the way there.

But tonight, I celebrate the quiet win of making it. All the way. To Graduation Eve.

Let’s do this.

- Cheesecake

25. Boxes, Boys, and New Beginnings

Yesterday, I moved into my new studio apartment — an exciting, chaotic, slightly soggy milestone. C, in classic C fashion, was 30 minutes late (truly, a punctuality king), so by the time he rolled up, the rest of the guys and I had pretty much packed everything except for the cat wall — because I needed C’s drill to unscrew it. When he finally arrived, he went full Bob the Builder mode on the truck bed to make space for my mattress and baseboard. Meanwhile, I, a certified Drill Queen™, dismantled the cat wall myself like the competent woman I am.

Once we filled the holes in the wall (landlord-approved, don’t worry), we caravaned our way to my new humble abode. Unloading the cars was a group effort, and once we got everything inside, I promptly put C to work. Indoor camera? Mounted. Shelves in the laundry room? Installed. Curtain rod? Handled. All while I was buried in boxes, doing the mental gymnastics of organizing a home from scratch.

The other guys were sweet but… kind of useless. Not maliciously—just directionless. They were willing to help, but needed guidance I didn’t have the brain space to give.

Eventually, we sent one of them to the store to pick up more screws and anchors — a mission that at least made him feel useful. When he came back, we all went to grab lunch. It was raining (because of course it was), so C pulled up his car like my own personal UberXL and insisted I ride in the front seat. He even leaned across the seat to open the door for me. What a gentleman. Honestly, it was giving “Hallmark movie but make it real life.”

As we walked to the restaurant, C held his umbrella over me and another friend, shielding us from the rain like a true Southern prince. We all sat down to eat (I paid, obviously — Sugar Mama alert), and after lunch, we returned to finish the move-in process. At this point, I was mentally unraveling. My place looked like a tornado hit a HomeGoods, I was overstimulated, the boys were doing nothing, and I was seconds away from an emotional breakdown. My eyes were getting red, my breath was catching — I was about to lose it.

The other guys? “You need coffee.”
C? He knew. He saw the panic.
Without missing a beat, he finished up his hardware tasks and jumped into full-on Unpacking Commander mode. He took initiative, told the guys what to do, and grounded me in the way only he knows how to. It was exactly what I needed—someone who saw me and acted on it. My brain was fried, and he filled in the gaps.

We got nearly everything set up, minus some decor, and then we all took a break and sat down. For the first time all day, it felt peaceful.

Eventually, most of the guys left. It was just me, C, and one other friend sitting on the couch, resting. I didn’t want them to leave. Not because I needed more help—but because their leaving meant I’d be alone. In a brand new space. For the first time.

But then they did. And guess what?

I was okay.

I took a shower, crawled into bed, watched an episode of Psych, and fell asleep. I was perfectly, peacefully fine.

This morning I got up, got ready for church, and met my mom there—which I didn’t realize was happening until the last second. Which also meant it would be the first time she’d see C since he and I broke up. Cue the panic.

I texted C a heads-up. When he arrived, I was walking out to grab my journal from the car. He walked with me, asked how I was doing (not well, thank you), and steadied me like he always does. My mom arrived, he greeted her kindly, and another friend joined us (bless him for being the human buffer). and it all went fine. Actually, it went well.

Was I spiraling for no reason? Kind of—but not really. It was a lot. And it’s okay to be overwhelmed sometimes.

After church, I went to lunch with my parents and gave my mom a poem I wrote her for Mother’s Day. She cried. (Poetic genius confirmed.) Later, she texted me something that honestly blindsided me: “I think C loves you. He’s just scared.”

I was like… Ma’am.
Is that motherly intuition? A vibe she picked up this morning? A hunch? Or is she just playing into the fanfiction I’ve been trying very hard not to write in my head?

Yes, a small part of me wonders if there's truth to what she said. But I can’t let myself go there. I got closure when he told me we were done-done. And you know what? I’ve actually been doing really well. Yesterday and today were beautiful. C and I are finally in a healthy, new rhythm. We’re navigating this new version of our relationship well. I like where we’re at.

I refuse to get lost in the “what ifs.” That road only leads to spirals. And while yes, there’s still a part of me that loves and longs for him, I’m choosing to lay that down before the Lord.

If our paths are meant to cross in that way again, I trust He’ll make it clear. And if not, I trust He’ll bring the right man for me — and the right woman for C.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know who holds my future. And He hasn’t let me down yet.

- Cheesecake

24. Packing, Protecting, and Pulling No Punches

Tomorrow marks a big milestone: I’m moving into my new apartment. C and a few of our friends are coming up to help me haul the rest of my life into this new space — a symbol of change, growth, and a fresh chapter as I close out my first year of teaching.

And what a wild ride this year has been.

I’m genuinely excited for the reset. There’s something comforting about the click of a new key in a new door. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m also carrying a swirl of emotions. Newness is beautiful. Change is good. But both can be hard. And being an adult? Also hard. Like, ridiculously so.

Speaking of doing hard adult things — something happened yesterday that reminded me just how much weight we carry as teachers beyond the lesson plans and grading.

Some of my students came to me with a concern about a male coworker. They shared that he’s been saying things to them that feel off — oversharing personal information, telling them about his crush, and even asking them (again, let me emphasize — middle schoolers) for advice. He’s treating them like peers, not students. And while I don’t have any evidence that there’s anything overtly exploitative happening right now, it’s still deeply inappropriate.

He’s also made uncomfortable advances toward me in the past — nothing blatant, but enough to make me uneasy. At the time, I didn’t say anything. I figured I could handle it. But this? This is different. This involves kids. My kids.

And the dynamic he’s creating is dangerous. He’s normalizing closeness and blurred boundaries between young girls and an adult man — and even if he doesn’t realize it, he’s laying the groundwork for behavior that can so easily cross into something harmful. I’m not saying he is grooming them, but I am saying he’s building a culture that makes grooming easier.

And I’ve lived through that before. I know what it feels like to not have a voice, to not know how to advocate for yourself. I wasn’t protected when I needed it most.

So, my hope — as the teacher these girls trusted enough to talk to — is to be a voice for the ones who might not realize yet that they can use theirs.

On Monday, I’m having a conversation with administration. I don’t want revenge. I’m not trying to go after anyone’s job. But I will not let this behavior slide. I will not look away. Because if we ignore the “small” things, we’re complicit when they grow into big ones. These students are my priority. Protecting them matters more than protecting someone’s ego or comfort.

This is what doing the hard things looks like. It’s not glamorous. It’s not fun. But it’s necessary.

So here’s to new beginnings, strong coffee, deep breaths, and showing up — even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

- Cheesecake

23. A Good Day

Today is a good day.

It’s amazing what a little clarity and a dramatic, Academy Award–level sob in bed can do for the soul. You know the kind. The one where you dramatically fling yourself into the pillows like a Victorian widow and ask the ceiling why life is the way it is. That kind. That sob? She worked overtime.

But honestly, I woke up this morning feeling...okay. Lighter, maybe. Because as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I think clarity really was the missing piece. I had been holding on so tightly — not just to the person, but to the maybe. To the silent “what if” humming beneath every interaction. And when you’re still wondering if someone might come back, you never really let them go. You just keep your hands open enough to catch them if they do.

But now I know. I finally, actually know.

And the knowing — while it stung at first — brought something I didn’t expect: peace.

Last night after the call, I texted C. I thanked him for calling. Told him I got the clarity I’d been looking for (for what felt like 47 years), reassured him I’d be okay, and said I actually really like the rhythm we’ve had the past few weeks — that I don’t want that to change. I told him not to start second-guessing his actions around me, because I’m good. Really. I'm not dissecting every side hug and forehead glance anymore like I’m preparing a case for the Supreme Court. The confusion is gone, and for that I’m grateful.

And look, letting go is rarely elegant. It’s not a tidy bow-tie kind of moment. It’s more like trying to detangle your headphones while they’re still in your bag — you don’t even know how they got that knotted, but now you’re elbows-deep in a mess you didn’t ask for. That was me. For weeks. But last night — for the first time — it felt like the cord finally came loose. I could breathe again.

Because here’s the truth: C was my person. I was just never his. And ouch. That sentence still hurts a little. But it’s also liberating. There’s nothing left to wonder about. Nothing left to hope for that isn’t mine to carry. And now, instead of walking around holding out my heart like a lost earring, I get to gently place it back in my own hands.

I’m healing. Slowly, yes. But today is a good day. Today the ache is quieter. The air feels clearer. My chest doesn’t feel quite so heavy. And there’s even enough emotional bandwidth in me now to make a joke or two, which, if you know me, is a very good sign.

Sure, there’s still a dull sadness where the love used to be. But it’s more like background noise now — a memory humming softly in the distance. And maybe that’s how you know you’re really healing. When the grief no longer screams. When the silence feels like freedom instead of fear.

At the end of the day, I know God’s holding me close. And honestly? I like His hugs better anyway.

- Cheesecake

22. The Second Wind

Tonight, I finally got the clarity I’ve been chasing for weeks — and, of course, it shattered me. Guess the universe has a twisted sense of humor.

I called C today because I needed answers. I had been feeling confused for weeks, and especially after yesterday at church. At church, C barely looked at me, didn’t hug me hello, and seemed to avoid eye contact like I was a celebrity caught without makeup. Yet, he sat next to me during service, and everything seemed fine at Bible study. Then, after we put the food away, one of the guys scared me so badly I screamed like I was auditioning for a horror movie. C was immediately all over it, his protective instincts kicking in. He made sure I was okay and gave me a side hug to comfort me, and honestly, I think he was more scared I’d go into a panic attack than the fact I just nearly broke the sound barrier. We ended the day with pickleball, and this is where the “is-he-flirting-or-just-competitive” game began. We were at the net, bodies basically pressed against each other, and he leaned into me like he was marking his territory. I don’t know if it was competitive energy or something else, but it was confusing.

Then, of course, we didn’t hug goodbye when we left. But, plot twist: We ran into each other at the store (because, of course, grocery stores are the perfect setting for life-changing conversations) and had this long conversation followed by not one but TWO hugs. I was thoroughly bamboozled. Mixed signals? Oh, absolutely.

So, I called him today to clear the air. I needed answers because, honestly, my brain was getting whiplash from all the emotional curveballs. He explained the hug after I was scared, saying he just wanted to make sure I was okay. I mean, understandable. The pickleball thing? Apparently, he was just being competitive and didn’t realize it came across as “flirty.” Who knew playing a sport could have such intense emotional consequences?

But the real kicker came when I asked the big question: Are we done, or is there still a possibility? His response hit harder than I expected. He thought we should move forward as if we were truly done, finished, kaput. He didn’t want to fight for me. He just wanted to move on and “let life unfold,” which, fine, maybe that’s a healthier approach than holding onto something that clearly wasn’t working.

Here’s where the punchline lands: I was always the one who loved him. He was my person. I loved him deeply, but he never loved me. It smacks you like a slap in the face, doesn’t it?

So, now I’m sitting here, feeling a deep ache in my chest, but with a little more peace. Maybe he was the one for me, But I wasn’t the one for him. I’m seeing that the guy I thought was my forever was never actually mine. It’s like I was holding on to a book that had already been closed, but I was still reading the last chapter in my head.

To make things more complicated, he’s helping me move to my new apartment on Saturday. Fun, right? I told him I needed a few days to decide if I can handle him being there. I just watched Someone Great (because what else does one do in the middle of heartbreak but watch a heartbreaking movie?) and towards the end, Jenny says, “I guess in that moment, I was choosing myself. ‘Cause it’s not our journey anymore. It’s mine.” Man did that hit. Because from this point forward, there is no longer an “our” journey. It’s back to just being mine. And sometimes, you have to choose yourself, even if it feels like your heart is being torn into confetti.

This is the second goodbye. It’s real this time. It hurts. And yet, I find myself chuckling at the absurdity of it all — because I thought he’d come back. I really did. But here’s the plot twist: he never was mine to begin with. I was just the plot device in his life story.

And that? Well, that’s the hardest pill to swallow: you love someone who doesn’t love you back. But hey, life’s a series of lessons, and this one came with a side of humility and a dash of irony.

- Cheesecake

21. The Good Old Days

I’ve started moving into my new apartment. My first place completely on my own. My bathroom is mostly set up, my closet is coming together, and tomorrow my parents are bringing some of my furniture. Piece by piece, it’s becoming mine.

And yet, it doesn’t quite feel like home yet.

Honestly, this move is hitting me a lot harder than I expected. I thought I’d be excited, and in some ways, I still am, but now that it’s actually happening, I find myself crying more often than I imagined I would. I feel rattled, a little scared, and full of questions that don’t have answers.

What will it feel like to wake up every day completely alone?
What will the silence sound like when I come home to no one waiting for me?
No roommates to talk to. No thermostat wars. No passive-aggressive sink full of dishes. Just… me.

And I didn’t realize how deeply lonely that might feel.

When I think back to a couple of years ago — sophomore and junior year — I’m filled with a heavy kind of nostalgia. Back then, I lived in a different apartment complex, and I was best friends with my neighbors. It was the kind of season where people felt like home.

I remember me and the boys next door laying out by the pool for hours.
I remember watching The Voice together, late-night talks and endless laughter.
I remember cooking dinner together, sharing milk and cookies, celebrating birthdays and made-up holidays just to have a reason to dress up and go out.
Sundays were for church, lunch, and sometimes pickleball.

I didn’t know then just how good it was.

You know that line from The Office — “I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them”?

Yeah. That’s been sitting heavy on my heart lately. Because I miss those days so deeply. I miss having my people nearby. I miss not being alone.

Now it’s full-time work. A college diploma. A solo apartment. And while all of this marks growth and progress, it also feels like a loss. Of what was. Of who I was with. Of how sweet that season was.

If I could go back and tell younger me one thing, it would be this: Cherish every single moment with the people you love. Soak in the laughter, the messiness, the tiny details of togetherness. Because one day, you’ll look back and realize — those were your good old days.

And who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll look back at this tiny studio and the silence I’m learning to live with and find a kind of sweetness here, too.

But for now, I’m letting myself feel it all — the joy, the ache, the hope, and the goodbye. Because that’s what growing up often is:
A thousand little goodbyes wrapped in beginnings.

So here’s to the days that shaped me, the people who made me feel less alone, and the memories that still make me smile through tears. And here’s to this new beginning — scary, quiet, unfamiliar — but mine.
Maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll call these the good old days, too.

- Cheesecake

20. A Letter to Letting Go

Loving C has been the greatest honor of my life.

Truly.

It’s something I wouldn’t trade, even though it’s brought me to my knees more times than I can count. Even though it’s ending, or maybe already ended, with my arms still reaching out for something that won’t reach back.

I’ve wrestled with this love. Fought against it. Prayed for it to leave me. Prayed for it to stay. I’ve begged God to take it away if it wasn’t meant to be, and then moments later, I’ve begged Him to bring C back to me. To let him choose me. To let me be his again.

Because I still love him.
God, I still love him.

I think about reaching out.
I think about texting.
I think about what it would be like if he walked back into my life not just as a friend, but as my person again. The one I got to plan birthdays for. The one I got to show up for. The one I got to cheer on, support, love… freely, and fully.

But we aren’t together anymore.

And it hurts to say that out loud. It hurts in the kind of way that sits deep in your chest and doesn’t leave, not even when you sleep.

He’s not mine anymore. And yet my heart hasn’t caught up to that truth. It still whispers his name in prayer. It still pictures a future that’s already been rewritten.

I think about all the things C is called to — the music, the writing, the ministry. I wanted so badly to partner with him in those things. To stand beside him. To believe with him. To be a part of the becoming. But that’s not my role anymore.

And so I find myself standing here — open-palmed, tear-streaked — and I realize: Because I love him… I have to let him go.

I don’t want to be the storm cloud in his sky. I don’t want to be what holds him back from becoming everything he’s meant to be. I want him to flourish. To grow. To soar. And if that means stepping back… If that means letting go, even when my whole being wants to cling…

Then that’s what I will do.

Not because it’s easy. Not because I’ve stopped loving him. But precisely because I haven’t.

Because real love doesn’t demand its own way. Real love releases. Real love trusts God with the outcome. Even when it breaks your heart.

So I’m letting go. Not because I want to. But because I love him so.

Enjoy this poem:
Because I Love You So

Loving you has been the greatest honor
not light, not fleeting,
but a fire I’ve tended
through the long wrestle with what love is,
what it asks,
what it costs.

I have loved you
even knowing
you may never love me.
Still, I loved.
Still, I hoped.
Still, I reached for you in the dark
when your light felt just out of reach.

I sit with this love,
bare in its truth
how we are no longer we,
how my heart still longs
to pull you close,
to have you choose me,
to be yours,
and you, mine.

I want to reach out,
not as a friend
but as something more
what we once dreamed,
what I still hold.

Because I love you,
I think of your music,
your words,
your calling
the life you’re carving with trembling hands.
I longed to be beside you in it all,
to walk with you in purpose,
to build, to serve, to believe together.

But that is no longer my role.

And so,
because I love you,
I must let you go.

Not in anger,
not in bitterness,
but in reverence.
Because love, real love,
does not cling
when release is the holier thing.

I will not be the storm cloud in your sky.
I will not be what holds you back
from becoming all you are called to be.

And so
because I love you,
I open my hands.
I watch you go.

And my heart breaks
beneath the weight
of its own beauty.

Because you are no longer mine.
Because I love you so.

- Cheesecake

19. A Cheesecake I’ll Never Bake

Today is C’s birthday.

And I’m sitting here with the weight of something that doesn’t have a name. It’s not just sadness, though that’s in the mix. It’s not just longing, though that lingers too. It’s something quieter, harder to describe — the ache of unspent love.

I had planned on making him a cheesecake. His favorite. I even knew which recipe I’d use, and which plate I’d serve it on. I pictured the smile on his face, the way he’d look down bashfully before taking that first bite. It wasn’t just about the dessert. It was about loving him in the ways I knew how — simple, intentional, tender.

But we’re not together anymore. And so I’m not baking today. I’m not driving to his house. I’m not joining in on the family weekend I know I would have been invited to. I’m not standing beside him, celebrating the life of someone I still love so much it makes my chest tight.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? When a relationship ends, it’s not just the present that changes — it’s all the futures that fall away with it. The imagined birthdays. The shared traditions. The feeling of belonging somewhere that isn’t yours anymore.

I want to celebrate him. I want to make him feel special. I want to cheer him on, not from a distance, but from beside him. But love, when it’s no longer welcome in its old form, has to change shape. It doesn’t disappear. It just gets quieter.

Today, my love looks like silent prayers and whispered memories. It looks like tears I don’t apologize for. It looks like honoring the tenderness in my heart without trying to shove it away.

I don’t know what he’s doing right now. I hope he’s laughing. I hope he feels cherished. I hope someone brings him cheesecake, even if it isn’t mine.

And maybe that’s my offering today. Letting go without bitterness. Holding space for gratitude and grief to sit side by side.

Happy birthday, C. You are deeply loved — still.

Even if I can’t say it the way I want to.

- Cheesecake

18. When Grief Doesn’t Have Closure

It’s been three weeks since C broke up with me.

Three. Whole. Weeks.

Twenty-one days of trying to breathe around a pain that somehow still surprises me with its sharpness.
And honestly? I feel gross inside every time I think about it.
Not “oops I forgot to shower” gross — more like “something cracked inside me and I don’t know how to mop it up” gross.

Even as I write this, I can feel the tears prickle at the edge of my eyes, just sitting there, waiting for permission.

Some days, I’m fine. Like… we’re doing it, fam. We’re moving forward. Look at me, thriving.
Other days? I want to curl up in a corner and just evaporate. No poetic metaphor. Just… cease.
And some days — the worst days — I get mad.
I get so mad.

Mad that C could pour so much of his time and soul into his music, his calling, his passion...
But not into me.
Not into us.

And before you come at me with “well maybe it just wasn’t meant to be,” please know I’ve already tried to console myself with that line.
It doesn’t work.
Not when someone tells you that you’re wonderful, that you’re virtuous, that you’re someone they admire deeply… And then still chooses to walk away.

Like, sorry, but if I’m so great, why am I not enough for you to stay?

And that’s the thing I keep spinning around in my brain like a record that skips.
If he thought I was all those things… why did he leave?

I know, I know. Relationships are complicated. Timing. Mental health. Calling. All that jazz.
But try telling that to the shattered pieces of my heart that I keep finding in unexpected places — in the corner of my car seat, in the stupid love songs on my playlist, in the back row of church, in my freaking dreams.

It feels so cruel sometimes. Like he got to walk away — clean, whole, inspired.And I got left behind — grieving, confused, holding this burning bag of “what now?”

And yeah, I know God’s in it. Somewhere.
I know He’s near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18), and I cling to that truth like a lifeline some nights.
But I still want to scream into my pillow. I still want to ask God why He let me fall so hard just to hit pavement.

My bible study group is coming to help me move-in to my new apartment next week. Guess who is also coming?! C. I wish he were helping me move into this new apartment as my boyfriend, and not as some gentle echo of what he used to be. I wish, when everyone else drives away, he’d stay behind. That he’d hold me as I exhale the weight of change —
the kind that shakes more than furniture, the kind that shifts the ground beneath your soul.

I want him there, not just to carry boxes, but to carry space with me. To sit in the quiet of these unfamiliar walls and remind me that I’m not alone in all this becoming. I want him to be who he was — my person.

But that’s no longer written in the script of us.

Still, my body remembers. It aches to text him. To press myself into the safety of his arms. To feel his warmth seep into mine, to breathe in the scent of him like a balm, to thread my fingers through his hair the way I used to when the world felt safe. I want all of these things. Desperately. But none of them belong to me anymore.

Sometimes, I catch myself fantasizing about the version of this story that never happened. In that version, he stays.

He looks me in the eyes and says, “I know this is scary. I know this is hard. But you’re worth the risk.” He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t retreat into silence or ambiguity. He shows up, fully, bravely, and chooses to work through the chaos with me. To fight for us.

In that version, I don’t have to wonder if I was asking for too much. Or if I was just too much, period.

But that version never happened. And I can’t live in it. I have to live here — in the messy, unglamorous reality of grief and growth.

Which, by the way, sometimes looks like me crying in traffic. Or listening to worship music I barely believe in right now, just in case God is still listening to me. And maybe He is. Maybe that’s the part I’m slowly learning — that God doesn’t wait for me to get it together before He sits with me in the ruins. Maybe He’s not afraid of my anger or my doubt. Maybe He’s just… here. Patient. Still. Steady.

I’m not healed. But the fact that I can write this — that I can name my pain without sugarcoating it — feels like a start.

Maybe healing doesn’t always feel like victory. Maybe sometimes it just feels like being honest. Maybe that’s holy, too.

The hardest part, though? It’s not even the fact that he left. It’s the not knowing if he’ll ever come back. That limbo-space is excruciating. Because I know how to grieve when something dies, but what do you do when something just… pauses? When it lingers in the doorway with no clear goodbye, and no promise of return?

I find myself replaying our moments, mining them for hidden meaning. Did that look mean something? Was that hug longer than usual? Did he almost say something more?

It's exhausting. Because even as I try to move forward, there's a part of me constantly glancing over my shoulder, hoping I'll see him running toward me, finally realizing he made a mistake. Finally ready to stay.

I want that so badly, it makes my bones ache. I want him to come back to me. Desperately. Not because I can’t live without him — I know I can. But because something about our connection felt rare. And real. And unfinished.

And yes, I know — if he were meant to stay, he would have. I’ve heard all the quotes. I’ve given that same advice to other people. But advice sounds different when it’s your own heart on the line.

So here I am — caught in the tension. Of wanting. Of waiting. Of not knowing.

And I keep bringing that tension to God — over and over again — like a child dragging a broken toy to her Father saying, "Can You fix this? Please? Can You bring it back?"

I don’t know what God will do. I don’t know if this story will include a return. That unknown scares me to death, and brings tears to my eyes like nobody’s business. But I do know He’s with me in the ache.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

- Cheesecake

17. A Change is Gonna Come

Change and I? We’re basically on a first-name basis at this point. Maybe even more than that — maybe Change is my new annoying roommate who eats all my snacks and leaves emotional messes for me to clean up.

Yesterday, I got the keys to my new apartment. Next week, I move in. In a few weeks, I graduate. Soon after that, I’ll have my teaching certification in hand. Then comes applying to master's programs, figuring out the next five years of my life, and pretending I’m not absolutely winging it.

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

And on top of all that shiny newness, there's the not-so-shiny reality of dealing with a breakup — a quiet, lingering heartbreak that doesn’t really care how many moving boxes I have to tape up or how many shiny new keys I get to dangle from my keychain.

Change is everywhere. In my living situation, my career path, my relationships, my Saturday afternoons. Everything is shifting under my feet, like some cosmic game of hopscotch I didn’t actually sign up for but somehow still have to win.

And the weird part is — some of it feels exciting. Like, good change. Like I’m actually growing into the person I’m supposed to be. But, some of it just feels sad. Heavy. Like all the goodbyes I didn’t really want to say but had to anyway.

The version of me who thought everything would stay the same? Yeah, she’s not here anymore. She didn’t survive the packing process. Instead, there's me: tired, hopeful, heart-bruised, carrying way too many metaphorical (and literal) boxes, trying to believe that maybe — just maybe — all this change is leading somewhere good. Or at the very least, somewhere with decent air conditioning.

Here’s the thing about change:
Everyone loves to talk about it like it’s this glamorous, brave thing.
“Wow, you’re growing so much!”
“You’re stepping into a new season!”
“Look at you embracing all the newness!”

And I’m over here like: yeah, okay, but have you ever ugly-cried while filling out a change-of-address form because the post office makes you confront all your life decisions at once? No one tells you that change, while technically exciting, can also feel like grief with better PR. You grieve the places you’re leaving. You grieve the people you thought would still be by your side. You grieve the version of yourself that thought it had life all mapped out neatly — spoiler alert: it didn’t.

It’s messy.
It’s emotional.
It’s, honestly, a little bit rude.

But somewhere deep under all the chaos, I hear a whisper from the Lord:
"Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" (Isaiah 43:19)

And honestly? Some days, I do not perceive it.
Some days, all I perceive is my laundry pile and my anxiety about whether or not my stuff will survive yet another move.

And yet — somehow — there’s this stubborn, slightly bruised part of me that keeps showing up. Keeps believing. Keeps hoping that maybe, even when I can't see it, God is working behind the scenes. Maybe this uprooting is actually a replanting. Maybe the mess is the miracle in disguise.

Because the truth is, change doesn’t ask for your permission. It bulldozes in whether you’re ready or not. And maybe the goal was never to feel ready. Maybe the goal is just to be faithful — scared, hopeful, carrying all your metaphorical boxes — and trust that the God who led you this far is not about to peace out now.

"The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame." (Isaiah 58:11)

So here I am: messy, emotional, duct-taping my heart back together — and somehow still being held. Still being guided. Still being rebuilt by a God who is way better at construction than I am at destruction.

Maybe that’s what faith looks like sometimes:
Showing up in the mess, eyes puffy from crying, and saying, “Okay, Lord. I’m still here. Do whatever new thing You’re trying to do — but please, maybe this time, with less cardboard boxes.”

- Cheesecake