The Weight of Isolation

Disclaimer (because apparently we need one):

These thoughts are mine—not my wife’s, my dog’s, my friends’, or my employer’s. This blog is mostly for me (and maybe my therapist), but if you decide to stick around and read it, cool. Just know I reserve the right to respond… or totally ignore you.

I wrote this back in November 2024, in a moment when I felt completely lost and isolated.

I’m sharing it now because I believe honoring our past selves — even the ones who were hurting — is part of reclaiming our wholeness.

If you’ve ever felt alone in a crowded world, this is for you too.

I find myself feeling quite numb today, a state that has lingered for the past few days. Given the recent election results, this reaction seems somewhat understandable, yet it feels more profound than that. I realize that I haven’t spoken to my mom on the phone for over a year. While we’ve exchanged text messages, I’ve even struggled to respond to those in the past week, and it has left me feeling increasingly detached.

I am truly at a loss for what to do next. I cherish my individuality, but it’s painful to feel dismissed by so many. In crowded spaces, I often feel more isolated than when I am alone. Over the past six months, I have cried more than I ever have in my life. While there is a certain release that comes from expressing my emotions, I still find myself unsure of how to move forward.

I genuinely want to reach out to others, but I worry about coming across as a burden or seeking attention. It’s a difficult place to be, and I hope to find a way through this feeling of isolation.

I didn’t have answers then. I still don’t have all of them now.

But I know that telling the truth matters.

And reaching out, even imperfectly, matters too.

An Open Letter to Any Parent Who Won’t Love Their Child Unconditionally

 

Disclaimer (because apparently we need one):

These thoughts are mine—not my wife’s, my dog’s, my friends’, or my employer’s. This blog is mostly for me (and maybe my therapist), but if you decide to stick around and read it, cool. Just know I reserve the right to respond… or totally ignore you.

To the parent who loves with strings attached,

You stand, not in righteousness, but in ruin—wrapped in the tattered flags of hate you mistake for virtue. You raise your silence like a shield and your faith like a blade, slicing into the very child you once swore to protect. There is no holiness in your cruelty. No salvation in your judgment. Only the bitter stench of fear and control masked as love.

Once, they believed your love was unwavering. Once, they trusted you with the softest parts of themselves. And you—what did you do? You crushed those parts beneath the weight of your expectations. You confused obedience with affection. You wanted a reflection, not a child. A mirror, not a mind. So you choked out their truth and called it parenting.

But here’s the thing: they escaped you.

You lost your grip. They found air. And in that first full breath, they discovered a world beyond your narrow gaze—a world where they could live, not just survive. You think they turned away in rebellion. No. They left in self-preservation.

Still, some part of them longs for you. Not for who you are, but for who you were supposed to be. A safe harbor. A steady hand. A place where love didn’t come with fine print. But you turned love into a transaction. Into a contract with invisible clauses: “I’ll love you, if…” If you stay small. If you stay silent. If you stay someone else entirely.

You preach a Christ who is only as compassionate as your comfort allows. But that’s not agape love—that’s ego draped in scripture. You say God doesn’t like ugly. Maybe look in the mirror. Not the one on your wall, but the one made of shattered trust, of  children who no longer call you home.

This hurt did not bloom overnight. It was forged in years of quiet violence, of words unsaid and wrong names spoken like slaps. You think you’re standing firm in your beliefs. No—you’re just standing still. Rotting in place while the world moves forward without you.

They are not asking for your understanding. They’ve stopped hoping for your approval. All they ever wanted was respect—a name, a pronoun, a sliver of dignity. But even that, you hoard like a miser, as though their truth threatens your own.

It doesn’t.

What threatens you is that they are free. That they are everything you tried to silence. That they are loved—fiercely, wholly, and without condition—by people who don’t need to be right to be kind.

You think they’re lost. But you are the one wandering.

And still—somehow—they love you. Still, they hold that ember of hope that you’ll wake up, lay down your pride, and choose love over fear.

But time is a river, and it is moving on without you.

—One who rose from the ashes you left behind