I felt like sharing today's journal entry with all of you, as I’m sure many can relate.

I grew up surrounded by voices that didn’t care to listen. I lacked common sense, was too messy. Too much or too little, never quite right. The things I liked, the things I thought, were dismissed before they could take root. I’m not sure whether it was the neglect or the isolation that followed, but that’s how it began. A slow erosion of something fundamental. The feeling of being truly known.

Now, as an adult, I can count on one hand the people who have stayed with me: my husband, one person from high school, my mother. That’s it. It’s hard not to notice the absence of more. Proof that no one has cared enough or seen enough to leave something lasting. There’s a hunger for validation I can’t quite name. I suppose it’s what happens when no one tells you, in some way, that you matter.

There have been many men who captured my attention, each seeming to hold the key to something I’ve been searching for. Each one, with his charm, became someone I could imagine, someone to fixate on. In every one, I’d think, maybe, there’s something here. But it wasn’t about them. It was about feeling seen. If only they thought something good of me, it might mean something. I might mean something. It was more a desperate hope than infatuation. A fleeting chance to be seen.

And then there was the woman. We were close once, but I always knew how fragile it was. She was guarded, and I was aware of it. Every word, every gesture, every moment felt like a tightrope walk. One wrong step, and I knew it would end. And it did. She disappeared, and that was it. But you don’t forget those who leave an imprint. What I wish is that she could remember me the way I remember her. That I could have left something in her, like she left in me.

I wonder if I’ll ever be done grieving this. The feeling that, despite everything, I’ll always be left behind. Most people who mattered to me have discarded me without ceremony, leaving only memories of something that once was. I can’t quite make peace with it. I don’t think I ever will.

I suppose I’m not as afraid of temporary connections as most. In a strange way, they’re beautiful to me. Fragile, fleeting, but meaningful. I’ve had my share, and I’ve been changed by them in ways I never could have predicted. But in the end, who will remember me? Who will show up when it’s all over, when it’s just silence?

I imagine my funeral will be quiet. My husband will likely be gone first, and I won’t have children to speak of me. My mother will be gone, too. And in the end, I wonder: Will anyone recall me with fondness? Will anyone know I was here? Will anyone be glad I was here?

I don’t need to be adored by everyone, but I’d like to be remembered, somehow, by someone. A thought, a story, a moment in time that someone else holds onto. That would be enough.