Relational Wiring
Ever wonder why some people can sit in silence, untouched —
and you, you feel the weight of it pressing on your chest?
You sense the shift before a word is spoken.
You pick up the pause, the sigh, the faint change in someone’s face —
and something inside you starts scanning:
What did I miss? What needs fixing?
That’s not drama.
That’s a nervous system that learned early: connection is survival.
And when you care, you care hard.
You want peace — not the loud kind, the steady kind.
But here’s the thing no one tells you:
that wiring? It isn’t a flaw.
It’s a map.
It shows how you’ve learned to hold a room together,
even when it cost you your own stillness.
It’s why you say yes when you want to pause.
It’s why you explain what didn’t need explaining —
because a small part of you fears being seen as difficult.
It’s why your body leans forward
while your heart quietly leans back.
You learned to keep the air smooth.
But somewhere in that smoothness,
you forgot what your air feels like.
And maybe that’s what this season is asking of you —
not to become colder,
not to stop caring,
but to stop flinching when the silence stretches.
To let it stand.
To let them feel their shift — without rushing in to patch it.
To let your truth sit there, unwrapped, unsweetened.
Because peace isn’t always the quick fix.
Sometimes, it’s the pause that didn’t need filling.
Sometimes, it’s the moment you stayed whole
instead of folding.
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