Holding

Today
I held space
longer than the hour allows—

as she unfolded
the parts of herself
she keeps hidden
from the world—

and somewhere in the telling,
began to unravel.

I felt it—
the ache of not being enough,
the fear of being too much,
the quiet certainty
of being left.

I knew it
because I have known it.

Her longing
to be loved without condition
was not unfamiliar to me.

And still—
she cannot yet hold herself
the way she longs to be held.

There was a moment
her pain pressed outward,
close enough
to touch me.

Almost breaking.

She noticed.

An apology,
offered for the space she took,
for the worry she sensed,
for her very being
in the room.

I watched her shrink—
make herself smaller
in the way she has learned
to remain.

And I stayed.

Not to rescue,
though I felt the pull—
to gather her up,
to take the weight from her hands.

But to witness.

To let her be seen
without turning away.

I have heard it said—
we are drawn to heal in others
what remains unmet
within ourselves.

And afterwards,
when the room is quiet again,

I find myself asking—

what is it
that I need
right now?