There is a quiet grief that lives in me right now now, not loud, not dramatic, but steady. It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t come from losing something I once had, but from never quite receiving the thing I’ve longed for in the first place. Ambiguous loss has a way of doing that. It leaves no funeral, no closure, no clear moment where you can say this is where it ended. It just lingers.

When I hear Jordan Davis’s “Next Thing You Know,” I feel the ache of a life that was supposed to unfold in soft milestones…love that grows roots, shared laughter, ordinary days that quietly turn into forever. That song carries the dream of being chosen, of being partnered, of being witnessed as life moves forward. And yet, what echoes louder in my lived experience is the chorus of Ella Langley’s “Choosing Texas”…the leaving, the independence, the self-reliance, the strength forged not by being held, but by having to hold myself.

That contrast has shaped my experience of dating and love. I have loved deeply. I have hoped earnestly. And still, I have not been met in the way my heart has quietly waited for…the way that says, I see you, I choose you, let me care for you the way you care for everyone else. Carrying the weight of the world, of advocacy, of survival, of motherhood, while not having a safe place to rest emotionally… that kind of loneliness settles into the bones.

There are moments when the absence feels louder than anything else. The absence of someone asking how I am and meaning it. The absence of being softened by love rather than sharpened by responsibility. The absence of being held…not because I am strong, but because I am human.

And still… I remain.

I live in acceptance of what is without surrendering the hope of what could be. My mission matters. Raising my daughter matters. The work I do, the lives I touch, the healing I help create – it all matters. I stay spiritually fit because I know joy doesn’t only come wrapped in romance. It comes in purpose. In faith. In moments of peace that arrive quietly and unexpectedly. In laughter with my child. In knowing that my life has meaning even in the waiting.

Hope, for me, is no longer naïve…it is resilient. It doesn’t demand immediate fulfillment. It simply whispers, Maybe someday. And until that day, I continue to choose life as it is now: grounded, honest, lonely at times, but still open. Still believing that my childhood dream of love…real love…can arrive later without invalidating the fullness of the life I’ve already built.

This is where I am: holding space for grief and gratitude at the same time. Accepting the quiet ache. Walking forward anyway with a smile. And trusting that joy, in whatever form it comes, is still allowed to find me. Until then…cheers.