The First Time I Actually Stayed

2. I used to think being an adult meant knowing what to say. Having the right tone, the right words, and the right tools to handle whatever meltdown or emotional moment was happening in front of me. I thought that was love, offering answers, being calm, staying in control of both myself and the situation. For a long time, that felt like responsibility. It felt like care. I believed that if I could explain feelings away, soften them, or make them disappear, I was doing something right. But now, I wonder if I was just trying to manage my discomfort, not theirs. That belief didn’t come from nowhere. I grew up in a household where feelings were rarely invited to stay long. Not because we were harsh or unkind. We were just quiet. Emotions were not dealt with; they were addressed with quick fixes or polite avoidance. If you cried, someone reminded you that others had it worse. If you were angry, you were told to calm down, but you were rarely asked why. I learned to downplay how I felt. I became skilled at appearing unbothered. I believed that being easy to be around was the same thing as being emotionally mature. That being steady meant not feeling too much. And eventually, I carried that into adulthood like it was a rule.

3. It took something simple, almost forgettable, to show me where that belief had rooted itself in me. I was watching my nephew one afternoon. He’s five, expressive, sensitive, and completely unfiltered in the way only children can be. He wanted chocolate milk, and we didn’t have any. I offered him apple juice instead, casually, assuming that would be fine. But to him, it wasn’t. His face crumpled, his body tensed, and he started crying loudly and hard. The kind of crying that would’ve embarrassed me as a kid. And almost instinctively, I went into that “adult” mode, I thought I was supposed to crouch down beside him and say. “Hey buddy, it’s not a big deal. You’re Okay.” What he said next stopped me cold: “You just want me to stop.” And he was right. At that moment, I didn’t want to understand his feelings; I wanted to end them. Not for him, but for me. His crying had poked something in me that was still raw, still unresolved: the discomfort of witnessing someone else’s unfiltered emotion when I’d spent most of my life trying to suppress my own. I saw it so clearly. I wasn’t trying to help him regulate. I was trying to make myself feel less helpless, less exposed. I had mistaken control for connection.

4. So I did the only thing that felt honest. I stopped trying to fix it. I sat down next to him, on the floor, and said nothing. He kept crying, but he didn’t turn away. After a few minutes, he leaned into me, and that’s when I understood that he didn’t need an answer; he needed to know he wasn’t alone. That moment, small as it was, unraveled something in me. Because it mirrored all the times I had cried, and no one had stayed. The times I was told to calm down without being asked what hurt. The times I learned that keeping my feelings to myself was the fastest way to be “good.” Sitting there beside him, I realized just how much of that old story I was still carrying and how easily I could’ve passed it on. Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be safe for someone. Not in the way that fixes or solves, but in the way that stays. I think we underestimate the power of staying, of not looking away, and of sitting beside someone in the middle of their mess and letting the moment breathe. I never had a name for it growing up, but I know now what it looks like. Its presence. It’s patience. It’s choosing not to flee when feelings get big.

5. My nephew taught me something that day without knowing it. He taught me that love isn’t always found in answers. Sometimes it lives in silence, in stillness, and in the choice to stay close, even when the room gets loud. I don’t always get it right. I still catch myself wanting to fix, to explain, and to move past the discomfort. But I’m learning. I’m unlearning. And maybe that’s enough. Because sometimes the most healing thing we do for others, and for ourselves, is to stop trying to manage emotion, and let things be.. Because every time I choose to stay, instead of fixing, I’m not just showing up for him. I’m showing up for the kid I used to be. The one who cried quietly behind closed doors. The one who needed someone to sit beside the sadness. The one who didn’t need perfect words.

6. Just someone who didn’t leave. Now, all these years later, I get to be that someone. Not perfect, not all-knowing. Just… still here. The silence I used to fear has become the language of my love. And maybe that’s the quiet redemption of it all: That, in choosing to stay for him, I finally stayed for her; The girl I once was.

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