Finding Comfort in Your Arms: A Reflection on Love, Support, and Vulnerability

Two minutes passed, and I still hadn't found the words to say to you. "Talk to me, baby," you urged gently, and I knew if it were up to you, you'd keep asking until I did. My life seemed to flash before my eyes, and I felt like only half of myself, unsure how to begin sharing with you. But then you looked into my eyes, took my hands in yours, and asked again, "Talk to me."

I wanted so badly to speak, to tell you everything that was weighing on my heart, but the words just wouldn't come. I wanted to say I was uncertain about the future, but all I could manage was, "I quit." Your eyes wandered, but they held no trace of fear. I repeated, "I quit, babe."

You simply looked at me and said, "It doesn't make you any less of the woman I love." Tears welled up, tracing a path down my face, but I felt safe with you. That’s why I ran to you—you have a way of reassuring me, of making me feel close to perfection even when I’m far from it. You tend to my inadequacies so tenderly that they shape me into someone stronger. I looked at you again and asked, "Are you ashamed of me?"

"I’d be crazy to be," you replied. "Come here," you added.

The truth is, I love it when you say "come here." It’s in those moments that I lose myself in your arms, so I did as you asked because I wanted nothing more than to be held by you.

"How do you feel?" you asked softly.

"Empty and unsure," I confessed.

It had been four days since we last discussed the project, and you told me it was okay to take a break, to reevaluate. You also said it was fine to step away from teaching at the library until my eyesight improved. 

When I handed in my resignation today, all I could think about was you—not the reasons I was letting go, but how you’d understand, how your approval would ease my mind. Your validation is my comfort. I was lost in your arms, and I loved every moment of it.

"I am proud of you," you said, wiping away the tears I hadn’t even noticed. "It’s okay to pause, baby," you reassured me.

"I hate that I’m pausing because I’m unwell. I hate that I can’t see for a while and that the doctor said it might take time to recover," I admitted all at once.

"But you know what I love? That you’re trying to hold it together," you replied.

I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer, so I let them flow as I clung to you, so tightly that it felt like your skin might tear. "I hate failing," I whispered.

"But you’re not failing; you’re pausing," you corrected me immediately.

This time, I held on to you even tighter, because I felt torn apart from the inside. I hated the thought of letting go of what I really wanted. I hated the uncertainty. And now, I had to tell you—I didn’t know anymore.

"I don’t know anymore, baby," I said, my voice trembling.

"You don’t know what, honey?" you asked gently.

"I don’t know what I want. I’m not sure what I can do. What if…" I paused because I knew you wouldn’t want to hear it. You hate when I lose hope. You always tell me I’m better than the thoughts in my head, and I love that about you.

"Will I be okay?" I asked, changing my words to suit your heart.

"You know what I hate, baby?" I continued without waiting for your answer. I could tell, even without looking at you, that you were nodding your head, just like you always do when you’re listening closely to me.

"I hate not knowing. I hate fear and helplessness. I hate that I have to spend more time in bed now, and I hate that I might not be able to change the world the way I planned," I said as tears streamed down my face.

"You know what I think?" you said to me. "We’ll be fine. It might take a while, but we’re not losing each other, and I’m here. I’m very much here."

Your soft palms wiped away my tears, and I watched the time pass, lingering in that moment. Lately, I’ve been feeling like I just need to sleep, to fall asleep in your arms and start over tomorrow.

 So, I didn’t think twice—I just shut my eyes and let the comfort of your embrace lull me into rest.