Being Present

There was a time when being alive meant being everywhere.

Evenings were for plans.

Weekends were for people.

If there was a room, I felt the need to carry energy into it.

I smiled easily then —

not because I was pretending,

but because that was how I showed I was present.

Back then, I believed care had to be visible.

That showing up meant being seen.

That warmth needed witnesses.

Life didn’t challenge that belief all at once.

It did it quietly.

A plan that didn’t come together.

A visit I couldn’t make, but a problem I could solve.

Phone calls instead of presence.

Being useful without being visible.

And I noticed something —

the care was still real.

Even when it wasn’t performed.

Over time, I started arriving less,

but thinking more.

Listening more.

Choosing more carefully.

I began asking different questions.

Not “Should I be there?”

But “Is this how I can be most honest?”

There was a time when joy needed movement —

a spring in the step,

a sense of constant motion.

Now joy feels steadier.

Like a long walk instead of a sprint.

Like calm that doesn’t need to explain itself.

My energy hasn’t disappeared.

It’s learned direction.

I choose the interactions that feel true.

And when I don’t step in,

I let life arrange itself without me —

without guilt.

I know this calm can look like distance.

This quiet can feel unfamiliar.

But still water runs deep.

I’m not less welcoming.

I’m more intentional.

Not colder — just clearer.

This isn’t retreat.

It’s refinement.

Not a shrinking of life,

but a deepening of it.

So if I seem quieter now,

know this —

I’m not gone.

I’m finally here.