On Almost

Confessions of a Late Bloomer Part 8

I have spent years falling for almost.
The almost-love.
The almost-available.
The almost-ready.
The almost-promises whispered late at night, wrapped in just enough sweetness to make me hope.

I listened to sugar-coated words and called them sincerity.
I ignored red flags and called them “growth edges.”
I mistook affection for intention.

But almost never stayed.
Almost never chose me fully.
Almost never built a life with me.

And slowly, I realized:
Almost isn’t love.
Potential isn’t partnership.
Hope isn’t the same as home.

Almost taught me how to stay too long.
How to wait for breadcrumbs and call it a meal.
How to water dead gardens and call it devotion.

Almost was flowers and grand gestures,
but an inability to maintain consistency.
Almost found my mystery alluring,
but once it caught a glimpse of the magic within, it couldn’t fan the flame.
Almost clung desperately,
shrinking my world to make itself more comfortable.
Almost used my love like a bandage
hoping it could heal wounds it never named.

Almost needed me more than it saw me.
Almost wanted the steadiness of my love,
but never built a home sturdy enough for the both of us.
Almost loved the comfort of me,
but couldn’t, or wouldn’t, ever truly choose me.
Almost was always looking backward or forward,
too restless, too unfinished,
unable to recognize the gift of me standing right there in the present.

If you’ve ever fallen for almost, like I did, it’s not because you were foolish.
Almost is seductive.
We fall because we see potential.
We see what could be, if only.
We see the best in them, the way we hope someone might see the best in us.
We imagine who we would be in their place, how we would stay, how we would love differently.
We think maybe this time will be different.
We think maybe we deserve just enough to make it work..

So we ignore the knowing in our gut.
We listen to the gaslighting instead of our own bodies.
We leave ourselves spinning in hope, spiraling in excuses
because it feels safer than facing the truth:

Almost will never become always.

But almost isn’t the enemy.
They weren’t bad. I wasn’t wrong.
We were just trying to fit something into a shape it was never meant to hold.
We were forcing. Hoping. Stretching.
And hope, even misplaced, is its own kind of bravery.

Almost was never meant to stay.
It was a teacher, not a destination.
It showed me my own capacity for hope.
It taught me what I deserve, what I long for, who I want to be when I love.
It cracked me open, not to break me, but to prepare me.

For the kind of love that doesn’t ask me to fold myself smaller.
For the kind of life that feels like breathing, not performing.

For a long time, I kept calling almost enough.
Because it was almost safe.
Almost familiar.
Almost what I thought I deserved.

But eventually, you get tired of setting yourself on fire
just to keep someone else warm.

Almost taught me something else, too:
How to tell the difference between longing and loving.
How to hear the quiet ache of my own unmet needs.
How to choose myself first, especially when someone else can’t.

I don’t hate my almosts.
They were chapters I needed to walk through.
Lessons I had to gather in my own time.
Heartbreaks that cracked me open in ways that made more room for the real thing.

Almost made me ready for everything.
For the real.
The steady.
The love that doesn’t feel like convincing, or performing, or chasing.

Because I am no longer available for almost.
I am no longer asking for crumbs when I know I was made for a feast.

And when love comes,
the kind that stays,
the kind that feels as steady and safe and natural as breathing,
the kind that meets me where I am without asking me to disappear, or change, or to shapeshift

I’ll be ready.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤️