Hi. Marc here.
Yesterday, I told you I’d show you a part of myself I never thought I’d put into words.
It’s this:
I used to believe the world was broken.
Too broken to fix.
Too cruel to forgive.
Too fast to soften.
I didn’t say that out loud. I just… adapted. Chased things that felt solid. Played by rules I didn’t write. Worked jobs I didn’t love. Laughed at things that hurt.
I called it “growing up.”
But somewhere along the way, Erin entered my life— and she didn’t argue with that version of me. She just… waited. Watched. Believed there was more.
And not just more of me— More of the world.
She never used big words like transformation or reset. She didn’t rant about systems or scream into the void. She just lived like kindness was normal. Like care wasn’t something you earn— but something you extend, automatically.
And slowly, I started to remember something I hadn’t felt since I was a child:
The world doesn’t need to be burned down to be rebuilt.
Some things grow back when you stop stepping on them.
Last week, after the blackout, we sat in a café with no Wi-Fi. No signal. Just sky and each other.
She said:
“Isn’t it wild how fast the world stops without power? And how quiet everything gets? That’s the part I love. The quiet. Because that’s where the real world lives.”
I didn’t respond at the time. I just reached for her hand, and she let me hold it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
And maybe it is. Maybe the future isn’t built by force. Maybe it’s grown—gently, patiently, hand to hand.
We don’t need a better system. We need better moments. Moments that ripple. Moments that stay.
So here it is— the part of me I never thought I’d say out loud:
I believe in that kind of world now. Not because someone convinced me. But because someone loved me into it.
No slogans. No speeches. Just her.
Tomorrow, I’ll write about the first time I caught myself acting like her. Not on purpose— but because something had shifted inside me.
