Last night, I trusted someone with a piece of me.
Not the surface pieces.
Not the parts I’ve learned how to hand out without consequence.
The tender ones. The ones I’ve protected because I know how badly it hurts when they’re mishandled.
I didn’t rush it.
I didn’t give it away blindly.
I placed it there carefully, fully aware of everything that could go wrong.
And then I waited.
For the familiar ache.
For the tightening in my chest.
For the moment where regret creeps in and tells me I’ve made a mistake.
But it never came.
I’m still here.
Nothing broke open inside me.
Nothing shattered or slipped through my fingers.
I didn’t lose myself in the process of letting someone see me.
Everything is still right where it belongs.
That feels unfamiliar.
For so long, trust felt like standing on a fault line, knowing one wrong shift could cause everything beneath me to split apart. It felt like exposure instead of connection. Like survival instead of choice.
But this was different.
This felt steady.
Intentional.
Safe in a way I didn’t have to convince myself of.
I didn’t disappear afterward.
I didn’t feel smaller.
I didn’t feel like I had to gather the pieces of myself off the floor.
I felt… intact.
Maybe healing isn’t about becoming fearless.
Maybe it’s about learning that fear doesn’t get to decide anymore.
Maybe it’s realizing that even if vulnerability trembles, it doesn’t always lead to collapse.
Maybe I’m stronger than the memories that taught me to brace for impact.
Maybe my nervous system is finally learning what peace feels like.
Or maybe, just maybe, this is what it looks like when you finally trust yourself more than the outcome.
I trusted someone last night.
And I woke up still whole.
Still standing.
Still me.
And maybe this is easier than I thought—not because it doesn’t matter, but because I no longer disappear when I let myself be seen.