The Friend I Never Had

There was a time when I was always reaching outward.

Looking for someone to steady me.
To reassure me.
To tell me I was okay.

I didn’t know how to hold myself in those moments —
so I searched for someone who could.

Someone who would stay.
Someone who wouldn’t feel overwhelmed by my emotions.
Someone who could meet me in the places I didn’t yet know how to go alone.

And for a while, I believed that was the answer.

That if I could just find the right person…
everything would soften.

But underneath it all, there was a quiet ache.

One I couldn’t quite name at the time.

It showed up as overthinking.
As needing reassurance.
As feeling deeply unsettled when I didn’t receive the response I hoped for.

It looked like:

• Checking my phone, waiting

• Replaying conversations

• Questioning myself after I had already made a decision

It wasn’t just about other people.

It was about how quickly I would leave myself
the moment something felt uncertain.

I didn’t realise it then, but I wasn’t really looking for someone.

I was looking for a feeling.

Safety.
Softness.
Something steady enough to hold me when I couldn’t hold myself.

And because I hadn’t yet learned how to create that internally,
I kept searching for it externally.

In people.
In validation.
In moments of temporary relief.

There’s a particular kind of grief in this.

Not always loud.
Not always obvious.

But it’s there.

The feeling of not quite being met.
Of needing more than what’s available.
Of wondering why something still feels off, even when everything looks okay.

And beneath that…

A deeper truth: That what you’re longing for might not be something someone else can give you in the way you need.

This isn’t about blame.

Not towards others.
Not towards yourself.

Because most of us were never taught how to be with ourselves in this way.

How to sit with discomfort without escaping it.
How to soothe ourselves without abandoning ourselves.
How to stay.

Looking back now, I can see it clearly.

I wasn’t too much.
I wasn’t needy.
I wasn’t asking for the wrong things.

I just didn’t yet know how to be on my own side.

And that changes everything.

Because when you begin to see this — not as a flaw, but as a pattern —
something softens.

There’s space to pause.
To notice.
To question, gently:

What am I actually needing right now?

And more importantly:

Is there a way I can begin to offer that to myself?

This is where it begins.

Not with having it all figured out.
Not with suddenly feeling completely secure.

But with awareness.

With noticing the moments you reach outward
and beginning, slowly, to turn inward instead.

Where am I still looking outside myself
for something I could begin to offer inwardly?

If you’re here, reading this —
You’re already closer than you think.

I’m still learning this, too.
Still catching the moments I reach…
and gently returning to myself.

And maybe next, we learn what it means to stay.

With warmth, always

Willow