Friday nights at the loudest party.
Dancing until my legs gave in, locking eyes with the most handsome man in the room.
Letting my dance moves reel him in, waiting for him to flirt, ask me out, chase me just enough to make me feel wanted.
Then came Saturday mornings – bottomless brunch with my girlfriends, sunglasses hiding tired eyes, laughter louder than the mimosas pouring.
That life? It felt like an adventure.
An adrenaline rush.
Oh, what a life – I thought.
But then come the rainy days.
The quiet ones.
The days when the house is still, but my mind won’t stop spinning.
When no one’s there to cuddle under a blanket and rewatch my favorite movie.
No one to laugh with when I pull out a deck of Omi cards at midnight, churros in hand, just to feel alive again.
On those days, I don’t want wild.
I want peace.
I want home.
I want to be surrounded by people who love me – not for the version of me they see at parties, but for the real me. The raw me. The sometimes sad, sometimes messy me.
When I’m crying into my pillow, I want my son and daughter to climb into bed beside me, kiss my cheek, and whisper,
Mummy, it’ll be okay.
I want my love to pull me close, kiss my forehead, and say,
We’re going to get through this.
That kind of love – the one that sees me, holds me, stays when it’s hard –
That’s the life I crave now.
That warmth?
I can’t get enough of it.
—
Previously Published on Medium
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