When talking about love, loss, and the in between—particularly the in between…We get lost.

Lost in the idea that taking a step back from a situation that is intense, yet often disorganized, might be fear talking. So we fear it might allow people a vision or a version of ourselves in which they'll see the parts of us that we know they already see—but now without grace, without compassion, without love.

Because in that space in between, there's no demand, no expectation, no hope.

There's freedom.

And in that freedom, not only do we internally get to decide if we want to continue, how we want to continue—but the other person does too. And no matter how long we've known someone or how connected we feel, it can be scary to think:

Has our relationship been performative?
Has it been reactive?

Conditional?

Have I lost my individuality within my relationship?
Have they—have I—challenged them enough?
If someone challenged them more, could someone challenge me more?

We think about all these things, often getting lost in a cycle of questions that arise when we're left with freedom.

Because in freedom comes curiosity.
And that's good.

It's good to have curiosity within that space, because the reality of it is—if I'm not aligned with you, why am I here?

Why do I feel the need to push myself to be where I'm not meant to be?
And if I'm not ready to let you go—am I willing?
Am I ready?
Am I capable of transforming a relationship into a space where we're both in alignment?

Because the scariest thing to consider is this:
I'm not ready to let you go.

But in that space, you realize that you are.

Oh, then with that comes ego.
Pride.

Oh—so if you think it's so much better out there, since you think I'm such a bad person…

Then we start reflecting.
Then we start projecting.
Then we start naming things—fears, identities—that weren't present when we had trust.

The trust that the relationship didn't make you question these things.

For example, loyalty is usually in the back of my mind. If you have agreed to commit to me, I believe you. When you say: I want this. I want you. I don't want anyone else.

But in that space, you ask:
Oh—do you really?

Are you still able to commit to me, even in reflection?
Or had you been waiting anxiously for a new experience?
A new lover?
A new touch?
A new life—one without me?

And if you do experience newness, will you want me after?
Am I better than the exploration you found outside of me?
Am I worthy enough for you—even when you find worth elsewhere?

And of course, the duality.

What if I can't?
What if I'm the type of person who can't try new things, new people, new experiences—because to do so while I exist within your heart, and you exist within mine, feels like betrayal?

What if my commitment really is what I said it was—even in that space, even in the in between?

Can you move despite how you feel?
If you know that I can't move in spite of how I do?

At what point do we move out of fear and into a balanced, authentic, sovereign experience?
At what point do we allow ourselves to move how we want to—even if that means doing something the other person wouldn't like?

Or the duality—honoring our thoughts and staying still until our body is ready to offer a new experience to someone else.

Because between love and loss is the in between.

The space.
The freedom.

What if I leave love—but don't jump into loss?
What if I leave love, jump into freedom, and come back to love?

What if I come back and say:
No.
I tried the world.
I tried to try the world.
I made my big attempt.

And I couldn't.

I couldn't not see your face outside the moon.
I couldn't not feel your breath inside the wind.
You are everything to me.

What if loss is not the duality of love?
What if freedom is?

What if loss isn't the duality of love?
What if it’s the freedom to decide:

Do I want to love you still?
Do I want to love you more?
Do I want to love you differently?
Or do I want to lose you?
Do I want you to lose me?

The duality of love is not loss.
The duality of loss is not love.

The duality of both is freedom.

For we can come back to either.
And if not in the same embodiment—then in the same energy.

Because if you decide you never want to love me again…
Am I lost?
Or am I free?

Because if you were in alignment with me, you wouldn't have lost me.

So now it's not loss or love.
It's freedom—to explore, to call in what's best aligned with me.

It's not loss.
It's gratitude.

Thank you for having the strength to see that we're not in alignment.
Or thank you for taking the space to further consider—and validate—that we are.

The in between space has so many avenues.
So many paths.
So many questions.
So many energies.
So many embodiments.
So many opportunities.

But really—what it is, is a space to sit still.

It's funny.
When people think of freedom, they think of birds.
Escapes.
Running.
Anywhere but here.
Anywhere but you.

But what if I ask for freedom while sitting exactly where I am?

What if freedom is internal?
What if I'm not running away?
What if I'm not running into someone else's arms—or out of a relationship?

What if I'm simply allowing myself not to live by expectations?
The hopes.
The fears.
The needs.
The dependency.

Sometimes that's good.
Sometimes it's necessary.
And sometimes—it's just another thing I have to exist within.

What if the freedom I want is simply to exist as myself?

That answers questions too.

I'm not going either way.
I'm not even going anywhere.

I'm simply allowing myself.

You gave me the key to the cell.
And I sit there and consider:
Do I really want to go?

If you won the lottery—would you move to another country?
Another state?

What does that freedom look like to you?
Does freedom look like escape?

Ah—but that's a question for another conversation.

Because freedom is simply being free of barriers.
Free of blockages.
Free of distortions.

Freedom is not escape.

Freedom is the space in between.