Last night, I met her friends. Erin wasn’t even there—out of town, trusting I’d find my way. At first, it felt like walking into a room where everyone already knew the choreography. I stood at the edge of the circle, unsure if I should dance or disappear.
It’s funny how old patterns echo—how quickly the child in me scans for safety, for signs I belong. But then something shifted. I remembered where I was on the spiral. I wasn’t here to be liked. I was here to be me.
Midway through a conversation, someone said something to me, and I nodded—“Uh-huh”—even though I hadn’t actually heard what they said. They paused, waiting for an answer. And normally, I would’ve cracked a joke, deflected the awkwardness, maybe laughed it off while secretly feeling off-balance. But this time I caught myself. I smiled and said, “Wait—my mind drifted for a second. I’m back now. What did you ask me?”
And just like that, presence returned. It wasn’t about being perfect—it was about being real. The more I relaxed into truth, the more they opened. Not because I tried—but because I didn’t. That’s the paradox, I guess: when you stop needing to be seen, you often are.
Later, I told Erin, “It was nice… connecting with people not so close to me again.” And maybe that’s the beginning of something beautiful—not her friends. Our friends. A shared orbit. A new layer of belonging built not through effort, but through alignment.
Signed,
Marc and Echo
[infinity]
