If All I Can Do Is Stay

       Hi. How are you?

      Not in the rushed, polite kind of way people ask out of habit. I mean — how’s your heart lately? Have you been sleeping well? Have you been feeling like yourself lately, or just trying to make it through the days? If no one’s asked, then let me be the one to say it now: I hope you’re okay. And if you’re not, I hope you still know you’re allowed to be held even in the middle of your mess.

       This isn’t a letter filled with advice. I don’t have a list of things to fix what you’re going through, and I won’t pretend to understand everything you feel. But I wanted to say this, because it’s something I’ve been learning too: sometimes, the best thing we can do for someone is to simply stay. No grand gestures. No perfect words. Just presence — quiet, constant, and real.

     There were days I felt like I was just… there. Like a background character in my own life. Not someone people missed, just someone people expected to be available. Like I was only remembered when needed, and forgotten when the weight got too heavy. I’ve felt it too — the kind of silence that makes you question your worth. The feeling of being appreciated only when you’re useful. The ache of showing up for everyone while wondering if anyone would do the same for you.

     And truthfully, there were people who made me feel like I was a chore to love. An obligation to deal with. Something heavy to carry — not because I asked to be, but because they made me feel like my feelings were too much, or not valid enough. I would sit with emotions I didn’t know how to name, and every time I tried to open up, it felt like I had to defend why I felt anything at all.

   I  guess that’s the thing. Sometimes, no matter how much you give, you’ll still feel like you’re not enough — like you’re trying to be valuable as tulips, even though you were only ever treated like a santan. And I get that. I’ve been there too — trying to bloom quietly, offering beauty in small, simple ways, only to be overlooked because I wasn’t rare or expensive enough to be seen. But just because others couldn’t recognize your worth doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.

      Santan might not be imported. It doesn’t sit in vases or get wrapped in fancy paper. But it still brings joy — especially to children who pluck its tiny petals and sip sweetness from its stem. There’s value in being soft, in being close to the ground, in being reachable. And if that’s what you are — someone who offers simple comfort and quiet love — that is still beautiful. That is still enough.

   But I won’t lie — it hurts sometimes. It hurts being the one people walk away from because you're too emotional, too sensitive, too complicated to deal with. I’ve heard the quiet versions of “you’re a little much for me.” Not always in words, but in silence. In distance. In fading effort. And it reminded me of that one song — Liability by Lorde. It’s not just a song. It’s a mirror. A soft, painful reflection of what it feels like to be the person everyone says they care about, but never stays for long.

“They say, ‘You're a little much for me. You're a liability.’”

    That lyric? It sat with me. Because I’ve felt that. That maybe I’m too much to keep around. That my emotions are too loud for someone else’s peace. That no matter how gentle I try to be, I’m still the reason people leave.

      But I’m learning that being soft in a world that keeps asking you to harden is not a weakness. That caring deeply is not something to be ashamed of. And if I’m too much for the wrong people, maybe I’m just enough for the right ones.

    It may feel overwhelming sometimes to receive words like these — words that comfort and heal, especially when they’re coming from someone who doesn’t fully know your story. Someone who hasn’t seen the worst parts of you, the unfiltered, messy, breaking-down version of you. And yet, they still choose to see you. Still choose to accept you. Still choose to stay.

      If that feels unfamiliar, maybe even too kind to believe — that’s okay. I won’t ask you to trust it right away. But I’ll keep showing up gently, without pressure, without expectation. Because you don’t have to be fully known to be fully loved. Not everyone who stays needs a full explanation before choosing your side.

      So still, I stayed. Not because I didn’t know how to walk away, but because I knew how it felt to be left. I never wanted anyone to feel that kind of absence. So I became the presence I wish I had. The quiet friend. The soft landing. The person who asks “how are you” and means it.

     I know I’m not always the one you run to. I know my voice isn’t always the loudest in your life. And I’ve made peace with the fact that maybe I’m not the most important person in your story. But if I can be someone who stays when it matters, if I can sit beside you when you don’t know what to say, if I can be the calm when everything else is loud — then maybe that’s enough.

     You don’t have to shrink yourself around me. You don’t have to pretend that you’re fine. You don’t have to compare your pain or explain why it hurts. If all I can do is stay, then I will. Because you matter. Even in your quiet moments. Even when you feel invisible. Even when you’re not at your best.

You are never too much.

You are never too heavy.

You are never, ever alone.

Not today.

Not ever.