There are moments in life when silence says more than any word could. When the noise around you fades, and you’re left alone with the sound of your own breath, the slow beating of your heart, and the ache of a question that won’t leave you: what if they were never meant to come with me?
We spend so much of our lives believing that progress means addition — more people, more success, more recognition. But there comes a point, a painful yet necessary point, where we learn that progress sometimes means subtraction. To rise, you must release. To grow, you must grieve.
It’s not something you plan for. It happens slowly — almost imperceptibly — as the seasons change and your purpose deepens. You start to notice that not everyone clapping for you is cheering for you. That not everyone who walks beside you intends to stay.
And that’s alright. Because not everyone can come with you.
