when it slips

I’ve always believed that the way people treat you when you’re around says a lot about them. But lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe what matters more is how they speak about you when you’re not.

It’s strange how one careless moment can change the way you see someone. Not because what they said was particularly cruel, but because of how naturally it came out. As if it were something they had said before, only this time, they forgot who was listening.

And I think that’s the part that stays with you.

You start remembering the conversations, the little heart-to-hearts, the times you genuinely thought you were on the same side. Then suddenly, those memories feel a little different.

Maybe the signs were always there. I’ve seen how easily kindness can turn into criticism the moment someone leaves the room. I just never imagined that one day, I might be on the other side of those conversations.

I don’t think everyone who disappoints us is necessarily a bad person. People are complicated, and perhaps we all contradict ourselves sometimes.

But I do think there’s something quietly heartbreaking about realizing that someone you felt safe with might not have been quite who you thought they were.

No confrontation, no dramatic ending. Just a small shift in how much of yourself you’re willing to share.

And maybe that’s what growing older is. Learning that you can still be kind to people, even when you no longer trust them the same way.

Some things don’t need to be discussed. They just need to be remembered.

What We Carry

 

The older I get, the less interested I am in being right about people. I’d rather be careful with them.

It’s easy to look at someone’s actions and decide who they are. It’s harder to remember that we’re only seeing a chapter, not the whole story. We don’t know what kind of love they grew up with, what fears they carry, or what they’re still trying to protect. Sometimes people become controlling because they were never given certainty. Sometimes they need to be seen because they’ve spent a lifetime feeling invisible. Sometimes they hurt others without even realizing it.

Understanding someone’s story doesn’t excuse the pain they cause. Some boundaries are still necessary. Some distance is still healthy. But I’ve learned that I don’t have to choose between protecting my peace and keeping my compassion.

We rarely know what shaped someone’s heart. But we always get to decide what shapes ours.

I hope life never hardens me into believing that the only way to survive is to become less kind. If anything, I hope it teaches me to be gentler without becoming naive, to have boundaries without losing empathy, and to remember that the way I treat people says far more about me than the way they treat me.

What Did You Lose Between 2020 and 2025?

 

Today, I stumbled upon an Instagram post that simply asked, “What did you lose between 2020 and 2025?”

At first, I thought the answer would be easy. Time, maybe. A few opportunities.. But the longer I sat with the question, the more I realized I hadn’t really lost things. I had slowly let go of the life I thought I would have by now.

Somewhere between those years, I lost the certainty that life would unfold the way I imagined it would. I watched my dad become someone I barely recognized after his stroke. I watched my mom quietly rearrange her life around his, until caring for him became part of her everyday routine. I watched my brother stay home to help take care of our dad instead of leaving for college.

It wasn’t the life I had imagined for any of us..

I celebrated another wedding anniversary, realizing that some milestones arrive on time, while others don’t. And through it all, life kept asking me to keep going—to show up for work, to laugh with friends, to make plans, even when some parts of my heart were still waiting.

Looking back now, I don’t think those years only took things away. They also gave me a gentler way of looking at life. They taught me that not every unanswered prayer is a forgotten one, and not every delay is a sign that life has stopped moving. Hope looks different these days. It’s quieter than it used to be, but it’s still here. If you asked me again what I lost between 2020 and 2025, I’d probably say this: I lost the version of me who thought life had to happen on my timeline. I still miss her sometimes. But I think the person I’m becoming is learning to trust a different one.