Fluent in Feelings, Starving for Friends

I know how to name my feelings. Most of them anyway. Still have some work to do. But I can name the sharp ones, the slippery ones, the ones that show up dressed like something else. I’m still working on where they sit in my body and what childhood memory they’re tethered to but I’m zeroing in. I can talk about them like a goddamn therapist, complete with metaphors and pauses and eye contact.

And still, I’m lonely.

Not always. Not everywhere. But in the ways that matter, yeah.

It’s a special kind of ache, to be emotionally fluent in a world that prefers subtitles. To have done the work, real work, and still sit across from someone who wants small talk when you’re bleeding poetry. To listen to someone tell you they have almost 2 months of laundry to do and keep buying more clothes so they don’t have to do laundry. Choices.

I’ve spent years learning how to be present, how to regulate, how to hold space, how not to flinch when someone hands me their mess. I’ve learned how to say the hard things gently. I’ve learned how to listen without waiting for my turn. I’ve learned how to stop twisting myself into shapes just to be chosen.

But none of that earns you a seat at the table.

The irony is sharp, people say they want real, but flinch when they see it. They say they want connection, but only the easy kind. They want your honesty, but only if it’s curated. They want vulnerability, but only in palatable portions.

I’ve been called “deep” like it’s an insult. I’ve been told I feel too much, talk too openly, ask too soon. I’ve watched people ghost when the vibe turned real. I’ve sat across from someone who said “you’re everything I say I want” with their mouth while quietly checking out with their eyes.

And I’ve learned that being emotionally literate doesn’t mean you get the fairy tale. Sometimes it just means you understand not only why you didn’t but also why it hurts.

So yeah. I’m fluent. I can write about grief in a way that makes people cry. I can hold a mirror up without cracking it. I can sit in silence and not fill it with bullshit. I can talk about death like I’m picking out apples.

But what I can’t seem to find, at least not yet, is a consistent, real friend. One who’s not scared of feeling things out loud. One who isn’t allergic to eye contact and honesty. One who wants to show up even when it’s awkward, or quiet, or messy.

That’s what this space is for.

Not a plea. Not a performance. Just a place to speak it out loud.

Maybe you’re fluent too.

Maybe you’re starving too.

If so, pull up a chair.