It’s easy to think we’re alone out here.
That we’re all just wandering through the dark, clutching at meaning, dodging pain, trying not to fall apart in public. Life can feel so staggeringly individual—your thoughts, your wounds, your fears—like you’re the only one who wakes up with the weight of it all pressing down on your chest before your feet even hit the floor.
But then something small happens. Someone reaches for your hand at a funeral. A stranger holds the door when you’re too distracted to notice it’s closing. Your friend calls—just to hear your voice. And suddenly, the whole thing feels a little less lonely.
Because as much as we pretend we’re all on separate paths, we’re not. The roads twist and diverge and fold back in on each other, but underneath it all, we’re moving in the same direction. Toward something quieter. Slower. Truer. Maybe even home—whatever that means.
We like to believe we’re the ones steering the ship. That our ambition, our plans, our carefully color-coded calendars are what keep us afloat. But the truth is, none of us are really driving. We’re just holding each other steady. Offering a shoulder, a joke, a kind word to someone who looks like they might need it. Sometimes they’re strangers. Sometimes they’re our parents. Sometimes they’re us.
And we don’t always realize the magnitude of that until later. Until the moment has passed. Until we look back and think, God, they really showed up for me. And not in a big, dramatic, movie-score kind of way. But in the way that actually matters: they sat with me. They stayed. They didn’t try to fix it. They didn’t flinch when things got messy.
That’s the kind of love no one puts on greeting cards. The kind that doesn’t always have language. The kind that just shows up.
Because at the end of the day, we’re not here to win. We’re not here to climb some invisible ladder or curate a perfect life. We’re here to witness each other. To make the unbearable parts a little more bearable. To walk next to someone—even if just for a while—and say, I’m here. I see you. I’ll keep pace with you until you’re ready to go on your own.
And when the roles reverse—and they always do—you’ll hope someone does the same for you.
That’s the thing we forget in the noise and the performance and the race to be okay: none of us get out of this untouched. We all lose people. We all carry grief like a second skin. We all wonder if we’re lovable when we’re quiet, or messy, or not enough. We all have days when getting dressed feels like a small miracle.
But even in that, we’re not alone.
We’re all just walking each other home. Stumbling. Laughing. Carrying bags that are too heavy some days. Taking turns being the strong one. And if we’re lucky—if we’re really lucky—someone will reach for our hand in the dark and squeeze just tight enough to remind us: You’re not walking this stretch alone.
And that? That’s everything.