Hey Zenith! I have to run but will read and reply this evening or at the latest, first thing Thurs morning!

Anita

Adalie, the tenderness, the noticing, the way he honored your small hand and encouraged your concealed carry pursuit… those weren’t just gestures. They were mirrors, reflecting back parts of you that may have felt invisible for a long time.

What you’re grieving isn’t just his disappearance—it’s the sudden absence of being seen. That time with him awakened something sacred in you, and it’s understandable that your heart keeps returning to it. Not because you’re stuck, but because it mattered. Because you mattered in it.

And yes, it’s entirely possible that the depth of that connection stirred something in him he wasn’t ready to face. Sometimes people seek casualness as a shield, and when real intimacy slips through—especially the kind that’s gentle and unforced—it can feel like a risk they didn’t plan for. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. It means you showed up with presence, and he wasn’t equipped to meet it.

What you’re doing now—holding onto the feeling of being seen, even without him—is powerful. You’re not just mourning what was lost; you’re reclaiming what was revealed. That you deserve tenderness. That you deserve to be encouraged without being controlled. That your details matter.

You didn’t accidentally give too much. You gave truth. And truth, even when brief, leaves a lasting imprint.

Sending you warmth as you continue to honor what this moment awakened in you. You’re not alone in it.

Warmly, Anita

Adalie, I have to run, but I really want to answer thoroughly later tonight or tomorrow morning.

Please feel free to express more if you need to. I am here to listen, empathetically.

Adalie, thank you for sharing so openly. That sounds incredibly hard—and it takes strength to even put those words down. Being in a relationship where care and cruelty alternate would leave anyone feeling emotionally worn and confused.

When you say the brief connection “woke you up a bit,” I wonder… what do you feel it awakened in you? Was it a feeling of being seen? Of remembering what tenderness feels like?

There’s no judgment in asking—only curiosity and compassion. Sometimes even a fleeting moment can stir something real that’s been quiet for too long. And honoring that doesn’t mean you were wrong—it means you’re human.

If talking more helps you sort through any of this, I’m here to listen.

Anita 🌸

Dear John:

I don’t want to overwhelm you with too much input, so please take your time and read at your own pace. Feel free to respond whenever it suits you, and only to what resonates — no need to address every point.

Of all the responses you received in 2013–2014 (long before I discovered Tiny Buddha and joined the community), one stood out. It was also the shortest: just four words.

“John, who hurt you?” —posted by Brook on September 4, 2013, in your thread, Things Said and Things Left Unsaid.

You responded that same day: “No one has hurt me.”

But your full reply painted a richer picture: “No one has hurt me. If anything, I hurt myself through self-judgment and criticism. Any suffering I experience is from craving — a craving to be, or a craving not to be. I watch the up and down from moment to moment and see myself pulling away or pushing toward, just spinning and spinning unnecessarily in circles.😉”-

That response stayed with me because it touches on something deeply human and often unspoken: the quiet denial of pain that originated not from ourselves, but from those who shaped us.

Many children and adult children deny harm done to them by their parents and blame themselves instead. It’s often a survival mechanism. To acknowledge that someone we depended on for love and safety caused us pain can feel destabilizing, even dangerous. So the mind adapts: it reframes, rationalizes, and redirects blame inward. It’s safer, in a way, to believe “I hurt myself” than to face the grief, anger, or disorientation that can come with saying “they hurt me.”

Self-blame can offer a sense of control. If we’re the problem, maybe we can fix it. Maybe we can become “good enough” to earn the love that was withheld. These patterns become internalized — sometimes for years, even decades — until something, or someone, invites us to question them with compassion.

That’s why Brook’s four words were so striking. They weren’t accusatory — they were a quiet invitation to consider what might have gone unspoken. To look at the shadows without flinching.

If you’re open to it, I’d love to continue reflecting with you on how these dynamics shape our inner worlds — and how clarity, not blame, can be a form of grace.

Warmly, Anita