When Distance Became Permanent
I was around ten years old when I first realized I couldn't rely on others emotionally.
That was the age when distance stopped feeling temporary—and started feeling final. When someone I needed moved far enough away that access required permission, money, and approval I didn't have.
I didn't have language for abandonment then.
I just knew something essential was gone.
Longing Without Permission
I remember finding ways to reach out anyway.
Making long-distance calls from a place that felt safe. Quiet. Allowed. I wasn't supposed to—but I needed to hear her voice. Needed proof that the connection still existed somewhere beyond the silence.
When that was discovered, I didn't feel protected.
I felt punished for wanting.
That moment taught me something important, even if I didn't understand it yet:
needing someone could get you in trouble.
The Desperation of a Child Who Still Believed
Years later, I did something reckless.
I thought if I could just get there—if I could physically close the distance—everything would make sense again. No plan. No money. Just the belief that proximity might fix what absence had broken.
It wasn't a smart decision.
It was a desperate one.
That attempt didn't bring reunion—it brought consequences. Damage. Injury. A financial cost that I carried as guilt long after the moment passed.
But what stands out most isn't the mistake.
It's the reason behind it.
I was still trying to be close to someone I felt had left.
What That Taught Me About Depending on Others
After that, something shifted.
I stopped reaching outward the same way.
Stopped assuming someone would come if I needed them badly enough.
Stopped believing emotional closeness was safe to pursue openly.
It wasn't bitterness—it was adaptation.
If wanting too much led to trouble, then wanting less felt safer.
Self-Reliance as Emotional Armor
Self-reliance didn't arrive as confidence.
It arrived as protection.
I learned to sit with feelings instead of sharing them. To process alone. To rely on myself for reassurance, stability, and grounding.
That skill served me in many ways.
It also followed me into love.
I became someone who didn't ask easily.
Didn't lean naturally.
Didn't expect to be met halfway.
How That Age Followed Me Forward
Even now, I can trace certain instincts back to that time.
The hesitation to reach out first.
The discomfort with needing reassurance.
The reflex to handle pain privately.
I don't judge that version of myself.
He was a child doing the best he could with loss he didn't cause and tools he didn't choose.
Why This Chapter Matters
This isn't a story about rebellion or mistakes.
It's about a child who wanted closeness and learned, early on, that it wasn't always safe to ask for it.
That lesson shaped how I loved.
How I waited.
How I guarded.
And understanding when that lesson formed explains why it took so long to unlearn.
"Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me." — Psalm 27:10