The Space Between Loving and Letting Go

 “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Psalm 34:18

Today, I realized something that both comforted and shook me. I have a loving heart.

Not the kind that performs or pleases out of fear. Not the kind that gives just to be needed. But a deeply rooted, instinctual love—a heart that wants to see people thrive, feel safe, and be held.

And yet, as much as I cherish that part of me, I’m learning that love without boundaries will bury me. The hard truth I’m facing is this: if I begin to set the boundaries I know I need, will I still recognize myself? Will I still be soft? Will I still be love?

There’s a tension I can’t ignore. I believe that duality should exist—that we can be strong and gentle, giving and guarded. But when it comes to emotions, I’m tired of the tug-of-war. I no longer want to play emotional chess with people who only show up when it's convenient for them.

Right now, I feel stuck. I don’t want to repeat this cycle of numbness and regret, where I can’t fully cry but also can’t fully feel. The sadness is real, but it’s not sharp enough to make me weep or loud enough to make me scream. It just sits there, quiet and heavy. I’m not angry. I’m not okay. I’m just in between.

What hurts the most is knowing that both of my parents are still alive, but they no longer feel like they exist in my world. I used to feel safe with my mom. She was my best friend, the person I could call, the one who made the world feel less sharp. I felt held in her presence. I was seen. But now, I don’t feel safe emotionally with either of my parents. That kind of loss—losing someone who’s still breathing—is the hardest to explain and even harder to grieve. It brings up questions that shake me to my core. Was I brought into this world just to break the cycles and hold space for others, but never feel safe myself? Will I always be the one creating love, but never fully receiving it? Will I ever be wanted, longed for, or loved unconditionally?

Sometimes it feels like I’m floating through life without an anchor. There is no elder, no parent, no guide that I can turn to who truly understands or affirms me. I don’t feel chosen. I don’t feel understood. I feel depleted. And it’s hard not to question the point of it all when the roles we depend on collapse right beneath us.

I remember watching an artist once. She painted with the colors of what she felt, then laid her body into the canvas. The result was more than a print—it was her soul in pigment. Her art wasn’t just a shape; it was emotion, femininity, softness, truth. It was her, unfiltered and raw. I think about that moment often, and I wonder—what would my canvas look like? Would it show the parts of me I hide behind strength and sarcasm? Would it capture the ache in my chest, the longing in my heart, the grief I can’t put into words?

Maybe the painting would show exhaustion. Maybe it would show love. Maybe it would show a woman still reaching—still unraveling, still becoming. And maybe that’s what healing really is: not a polished finish, but an honest process. A canvas layered with questions, cracks, softness, and survival.

I don’t have all the answers. But I’m still here. Still asking. Still creating. Still loving in the ways I can.

And maybe, just maybe, that is the art.