MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS: THE RIGHT SEED TO GROW

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS: THE RIGHT SEED TO GROW
by: Janna Real DeLeye

Sometimes, there are things you are forced to carefully consider—on one hand, the dreams you wanted to pursue, and on the other, a relationship you wanted to give a chance but never received the outcome you hoped for. It often ends in wishful thinking and regret.

It becomes a lesson you carry—or are forced to learn—because, in some way, you contributed to an injury. It’s always the what ifs, the weight of the lesson lingering behind it, even when you’re back at the table of life, still unsure if you truly learned anything at all. You will doubt it if you are in the right place but at the wrong time and now you will have to pay the price for it. 

Sometimes, you are forced to admit that you fell short—that it was on you, that maybe you were the problem. That you pushed love aside for reasons you couldn’t even fully understand or put into words. You begin to question whether there is still space in your heart for a relationship at all, because for so long, it has only made you feel uncertain—almost unfamiliar.

There was always something about it you couldn’t quite grasp. Something you couldn’t fully fathom. It felt draining, as if it demanded more than you could give. While others look forward to it, you find yourself slowly accepting a different truth—that being alone might be the future you’re growing into. And somehow, you’ve settled into that idea: that anyone who comes into your life is welcome to stay for a while, but it’s just as okay if they leave.

Some may see your choices as strange or questionable. They may not understand why you don’t follow the same path, why you don’t choose companionship the way they do. To them, happiness is found in being with someone. But what they don’t see is that, for you, it simply doesn’t work—no matter how hard you try. Whether you force it or let it flow, whether you try to apply what you’ve learned or unlearn and relearn everything all over again—it becomes a cycle that never quite breaks. And somehow, you never really get used to it. So you grieve parts of it, over and over again.

Others may believe this is just a phase—that eventually, you’ll find your footing. But deep down, you know it’s not about a phase. It’s about realizing that being with someone is not meant to fill in the blanks or complete what feels missing inside you. So you take a step back.

At the same time, there is fear—the weight of the unhealed wounds you carry, and the thought that you might pass that pain onto someone else. It’s not that you don’t love deeply or can’t imagine a future. In fact, you do. But the pressure, the expectations, and the many uncertainties never seem to align.

You love them—but you also love yourself enough to recognize the cost. And sometimes, you accept that cost, even if it means letting go of something you once wanted. You hold onto the belief that, as you move forward, the unfinished parts within you will slowly find closure—that the wounded parts of your soul will heal, and that you will emerge as someone softer, wiser, and more whole.

Sometimes in life, you are not really looking forward to the so-called feelings and love. What you are really looking for is a home and a space where someone understands every fiber of you. It’s not about treating a relationship like a checklist or believing you have to be in one just to avoid being alone. It’s about finding someone who stays with you in your darkest moments—someone who doesn’t add to your burdens, but instead offers quiet comfort, making you feel lighter in their presence. Because a relationship should lead to healing and growth, not pull you back into the same struggles.

Remind yourself—you are not being too choosy. You are simply taking your time, waiting for the right moment and the right seed to grow with you—something that will take root, endure, and stay with you not only at your best, but also at your lowest, in rock bottom, in sickness and in health.

Yes, you feel disappointment when people come into your life, knock on your door, and eventually walk away—often because you are seen as too complicated, too much. But that’s okay. You are allowed to grieve those endings. What matters most is that you chose to protect yourself, to carry everything with grace, so that one day you can look back and be proud that you didn’t chase what wasn’t meant to stay.

Because love isn’t only something you give to others—it’s something you must learn to give to yourself first. How can you love someone fully if you cannot even face yourself? How can you care for others when you struggle to look into your own soul?

And when someone does come along—someone who tries to see you, to understand your sensitivity—you hesitate. You think they might press on your wounds, disrupt the fragile peace you’ve built. Even when that may not be the case, you still find yourself stepping back, giving them space, leaving the door open—not because they want to leave, but because you’ve prepared yourself for the possibility that they will.

You have become guarded. You notice every detail, question every intention. But maybe it’s not only about protecting your peace. Maybe it’s also about the quiet expectations you’ve formed—the images and outcomes you’ve already imagined. And when those patterns begin to show, you brace yourself, almost instinctively pointing toward the exit.

But if someone chooses to stay—truly stay—then that becomes a different story, one you have yet to fully unfold.

There is nothing wrong with letting people come and go while you continue to understand yourself. What’s difficult, what often feels unfair, is that only a few will truly understand the journey you are on—the kind of healing that happens quietly, deeply, and unseen.