53 - The Full Moon in Me

Most days, 

I don’t mind being in the background. 

In the shadows. 

Watching life unfold around me like a film I wasn’t cast in.

I listen. 

I observe. 

I serve. 

And there’s a strange peace in that

in being the quiet presence that others lean on 

but rarely look for.

I’ve grown used to being a chapter in someone else’s story. 

A single episode. 

A moment of comfort before they move on.

And I tell myself it’s enough. 

That being the one who listens is its own kind of intimacy. 

That offering warmth without asking for permanence is noble.

But sometimes

like a full moon rising without warning,

Casting a warning light in the dark

I ache to be more.

I want to be in someone’s life. 

Not as a footnote, 

but as a thread that runs through. 

Not just the one who hears their stories, 

but the one who helps write them.

I want to be remembered not for what I gave, 

but for who I was 

when I wasn’t giving.

It’s a poignant duality I live in. 

Most of the time, 

I crave solitude. 

I protect it. 

I wear it like armor.

But every once in a while, 

something in me glows

soft, full, aching

and I long to be seen. 

To be chosen. 

To be part of a story that doesn’t end when the comfort fades.

I don’t need to be the sun. 

Just the moon, every now and then. 

Illuminating someone’s path and knowing I belong in their sky.

Knowing that somebody find comfort in the dim light that I cast