Handle With Care
A happy photo of me, choosing to treat myself with care instead of exhausting myself trying to correct every misunderstanding.
Editor’s note: This is written from my current vantage point
Welcome back, curious minds and kind hearts, to The Things That Stay, and somehow, already, the final chapter.
Throughout September, I’ve been thinking about what happens when life changes in ways we didn’t necessarily plan for. The dreams that change shape. The parts of ourselves we grow into. The parts we don’t need to change at all. And most recently, what we can hear when some of the noise finally gets quieter.
If you’re just joining the series, you can catch up here:
Chapter One: Somewhere in the Mix
Chapter Two: Keep the Change
Chapter Three: Still in the Running
Chapter Four: Do Not Disturb
Or stay right here. Each chapter is its own.
For the final one, I keep coming back to people. Which is probably fitting. Because for someone who genuinely enjoys spending a lot of time alone, I still believe we need each other.
I know I do.
I, personally, want people around me who I feel comfortable enough to be myself with. People who are kind, respectful, supportive, and genuinely interested in getting to know me. People who value communication and clarity. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
For a long time, though, I think I was more afraid of losing connection than I realized.
Sometimes I held onto relationships that weren’t particularly fulfilling because having some connection seemed better than having none.
What if I regret letting go?
What if I became lonely?
What if I didn’t find other people?
Those questions can make you hold onto things longer than you probably should.
I’ve learned that caring about someone and recognizing that a relationship isn’t right for you can exist at the same time time.
That’s been a difficult lesson.
So has learning that not every relationship can be repaired simply because you’re willing to try.
For a long time, I assumed that if a relationship mattered enough, people would communicate. And I still think it’s that simple. Actually, I think sometimes we make communication much harder than it needs to be.
That doesn’t mean everyone has to immediately explain every thought or emotion they’re feeling. Sometimes people need time. Sometimes we don’t have the right words yet.
“I don’t know what to say right now” is still communication.
“I’m willing to listen, but I’m not ready to talk about my side yet” is communication.
“I see this differently” is communication too.
It doesn’t guarantee resolution either. But it creates the opportunity for both. And relationships are a two-way street.
One person can ask questions, initiate conversations, try to understand, clarify misunderstandings, and keep showing up, but they can’t do the other person’s part for them.
At some point, a relationship stops moving forward when one person stops trying. And if certainty can’t go very far when both do.
I think that’s something I understand much better now. Caring about a relationship can make you want to work harder for it, but one person’s effort can’t sustain something that requires two people.
What became painful for me was experiencing what happens when that communication disappears.
There was a period when I felt increasingly shut out of conversations I desperately wanted to understand. I knew there were perspectives I was missing. I asked questions. I considered different angles. I would’ve listened to explanations I disagreed with simply because I wanted the opportunity to understand them.
Instead, I often felt like conclusions had already been made.
And when you know there’s a misunderstanding but aren’t given the opportunity to understand or clarify it, your brain becomes surprisingly creative. Just not in a fun way.
You replay things. Analyze. Fill in the blanks. Wonder what you missed. Try to solve a puzzle while somebody else is holding half the pieces.
I think part of me believed that if I could just understand the misunderstanding, everything could be fixed.
While sometimes misunderstandings can be fixed, sometimes they can’t. Sometimes two people can hear exactly the same explanation and still walk away with completely different experiences of what happened.
And I’ve become much more comfortable with that possibility. We can disagree. We can agree to disagree. What matters to me is having the opportunity to understand each other.
The same can be said upon knowing when that opportunity isn’t there has become important too.
But eventually, there comes a point when repeatedly explaining yourself stops creating clarity and started exhausting you.
I reached that point.
Little by little, I could feel myself changing. I shared less. I questioned people’s intentions more. I trusted less. Eventually, I was simply exhausted.
There were moments I felt so drained that I was nearly numb to the world around me.
But somewhere along the way, I started worrying about something bigger than the situation itself. What if this changes me into someone I don’t want to be?
I didn’t have some dramatic realization where I suddenly decided to throw open the doors and trust humanity again. It happened much more gradually than that.
Strangely enough, some of the reminders came from people who barely knew me.
I remember being flustered and overwhelmed at work one day when a customer reminded me that this wasn’t a life-or-death situation. That I wasn’t a doctor standing over an operating table. And that it was all was going to be okay.
I remember this moment vividly because someone took the time to notice. And instead of making an already difficult moment harder, they offered perspective and kindness.
There have been other people like that too. Strangers I’ve crossed paths with. People I’ve gotten to know little by little. Small conversations. Unexpected encouragement. Moments that probably didn’t mean very much to the person offering them but made my day anyway.
These moments matter to me.
Maybe that’s part of why, after everything, I still believe most people are genuinely good hearted. Maybe it’s my faith. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s the people I’ve met in all the in-betweens. Or maybe it’s the slightly child-like part of myself I’ve decided I don’t want to outgrow.
For a long time, I think I was a little insecure about that part.
I get easily amused. I love an adventure, even when the “adventure” is really just finding a way to make an ordinary errand more interesting. I like inside jokes and embarrassing word mix-ups. I’m curious about almost everything. I notice flowers and lakes and moments that make an otherwise ordinary day feel special. And despite everything, there’s still a part of me that believes things have a way of working out.
I used to wonder whether some of those made me childish or immature. Now, I see it as one of the things that keeps me hopeful. Because there’s a difference between being naive and refusing to become cynical.
I’ve learned to become more careful about who I trust. I pay more attention to consistency. Do someone’s words and actions align? Do they make an effort to understand? Can we talk about something uncomfortable without pretending it never happened? Do I feel safe enough to actually be myself around them?
I’m more selective about who gets access to my life now. But I don’t think becoming selective has to mean becoming closed. That’s a line I’m still learning to walk.
I’ve also had to learn that caring, forgiving, understanding, reconciling, and trusting aren’t all the same thing.
I can forgive someone because I don’t want to carry resentment with me. That doesn’t mean we reconcile. I can understand why someone made a decision without agreeing with the decision. I can care deeply about someone without continuing to have them in my life. And I can believe someone is fundamentally a good person without deciding they’re a good person for me.
Once upon a time, the last one would’ve been much harder for me to accept at one point.
I think I sometimes overvalued relationships simply because I cared about the people in them. Now I understand that caring isn’t always enough to make a relationship healthy or balanced. Neither is history. Neither is hoping it’ll eventually become something different.
Sometimes kindness needs a boundary. And boundaries don’t have to be cruel. They can be surprisingly ordinary.
Yes, I’d love to spend time together, but I still need to get my errands done. Yes, I can do this, but I won’t be available for that. I have work tomorrow, does another day work?
Apparently personal growth occasionally looks like calendar management. Not exactly inspirational-poster material, but I’ll take it.
I’ve also learned that sometimes the kindest thing we can do is communication. Ask instead of assume. Check in. Invite someone into the conversation. Give them the opportunity to explain something before deciding we already understand it. And if there’s a problem worth addressing, address it.
Again, while that doesn’t guarantee resolution, it creates an opportunity for understanding rather then leave someone trying to figure out a conversation they were never allowed to be part of.
And perhaps that’s one of the biggest things I’ve carried forward. I know what it feels like to desperately want to be understood. So, I want to remain as someone who is willing to understand. Not blindly. Not at the expense of my own boundaries. And not by assuming I know another person better than they know themselves.
Understanding, to me, starts with curiosity.
What am I missing? Is there another explanation? What does this look like from where they’re standing? And then actually listening to the answer.
Sometimes the answer may change My mind. Sometimes it won’t. Both are okay.
That’s something I’ve been thinking about as this series comes to an end.
When I started The Things That Stay, I wasn’t really talking about circumstances staying the same. Most don’t. Relationships change. Dreams evolve. Plans get interrupted. Places stop being home. Opportunities appear and disappear. Versions of ourselves that once seemed permanent eventually became stories we tell about who we used to be.
Maybe the things that stay are harder to see. They’re the things we work on. The values we keep choosing. The lessons we carry. The parts of our character that life stretches, challenges, bruises, strengthens, and occasionally makes us question, but doesn’t necessarily have to take from us.
For me, I hope it’s my kindness. My sincerity. My curiosity. My playfulness. My authenticity. My willingness to care deeply.
I hope difficult experiences never make me mean simply because someone else was unkind. I hope disappointment doesn’t make me condescending. I hope being misunderstood doesn’t make me stop trying to understand. And I hope experience makes me wiser without making me cynical.
Saying that, doesn’t mean I want to remain exactly the same. I hope I’m always changing. Learning. Becoming more confident. Developing better boundaries. Recognizing when something isn’t right for me. Admitting when I’m wrong. Finding new dreams. Letting old ones change. Taking another route when necessary.
But underneath it all, I hope there’s still something recognizable. A heart that cares. A mind that’s curious. A person who can turn an errand into an adventure, laugh at her own word mix-up, stop to appreciate something beautiful, and still believe there’s a lot of good in the world.
I think that’s what this entire month has been about. Not figuring out how to keep life from changing because we can’t. Rather it’s learning that we get some say in what those changes are allowed to take with them.
We don’t control everything that happens to us. We don’t control who stays. We don’t control whether every misunderstanding gets resolved or every question receives an answer. But we can keep deciding what kind of person we want to be afterward.
And after everything, I still want to be someone who cares deeply. Someone who’s kind to the people I cross paths with. Someone whose works to understand rather than simply accepting whatever has been said. Someone who can protect herself without losing her softness. Someone who keeps wondering what’s around the next corner.
I believe the things that stay aren’t always the things we thought we’d keep. I believe they’re parts of ourselves we choose to carry forward because of everything we didn’t. And I believe that’s enough.
As The Things That Stay comes to an end, I’d love to turn the question over to you:
What has life changed in you, and what are you determined not to let it change?
Maybe it’s your kindness. Your humor. Your curiosity. Your faith. Your hope. Your willingness to try again.
Take a moment to think about the parts of yourself that have made it through every version of your life so far. And if you feel comfortable, share one of yours. I’d love to know what stayed with you.
Whatever it is, take care of it. Some things are worth carrying forward.
Thank you for spending September with me and following The Things That Stay from beginning to end. Whether you’ve read every chapter of this is the first one you’ve found, I’m glad you’re here.
Until our next adventure, I’m sending you good health, happiness, and plenty of reasons to stay curious.
As a signature of my blog, I’d like to end this post with a suggestion to “Pass on kindness.” There’s no time like the present to Inspire Those Who Inspire You. Acts of kindness, no matter how big or small, can have a direct, positive impact on someone else. Go out there today and change someone’s life for the better!
***These are my personal opinions and may not be those of my employer.***
