Earlier this year, I reconnected with someone whose presence had once left a quiet imprint on my heart. What existed between us never fit cleanly into any category—it was tender, magnetic and unfinished. Ours was a connection that never had a name but carried the weight of something significant. The kind of connection that lingers long after it’s left the room.
Being in connection with him again felt like walking into a fun house full of mirrors—each one reflecting not just where I am now, but where I once was. What stirred between us wasn’t just chemistry—it was memory, longing and a clear reminder of the path I’ve walked to arrive here.
Because this isn’t a story about him. Not really.
It’s about what his presence revealed to me: the journey I’ve taken, the patterns I’ve laid down, the parts of me I’ve healed and integrated. It was the safety I felt in his energy that brought old echoes to the surface—not to be relived, but to be seen for what they once were.
Here’s the truth:
I’ve been single for 8 years and haven’t been in a relational dynamic since doing “the work.” The excavation. The remembering. The return to self.
And though I once lived inside the patterns I saw reflected in him, I no longer do. What felt like old blind spots became confirmation: I’ve moved through them.
This reconnection—though brief—wasn’t a beginning. It was a mirror.
Not of where I am, but of what I’ve outgrown. Not a doorway into ache, but a reminder of how far I’ve come.
The pieces I’ll share aren’t telling the story of he and I. They’re tracing the arc of awareness—the very awakening he now stands at the doorway of, and that I’ve already lived, healed and integrated.
These posts are fragments of that journey. The reckonings. The tenderness. The wisdom that only comes when you’ve sat inside the ache long enough to move through it.
Some pieces are raw.
Some poetic.
Some reflective.
All of them are drawn from lived experience, but carried now as insight, not wound.
This series is for the woman who’s starting to feel things she thought she’d buried.
Who’s beginning to spot her patterns—but isn’t sure how to move beyond them yet.
Who feels a hunger she can’t name, but knows she can’t ignore.
Who longs to feel at home—in her body, her truth, her love.
You might not be able to explain what’s shifting—but you know something is. A quiet ache, a crack in the surface. A flicker of remembering. You’re starting to see the ways you’ve shape-shifted to stay loved. The ways you’ve swallowed, softened or silenced yourself to hold something together.
These posts won’t tell you what to do. They won’t offer steps or strategies. They’ll offer something else:
A mirror. A language. A reminder.
Of the parts you’ve forgotten. Of the truths you’re beginning to touch. Of the knowing you already carry.
This is the return. Not to who you were, but to the woman you are becoming. The one who knows alignment in her body. The one who no longer abandons herself to belong.
We often talk about alignment like it’s something we find. But sometimes, alignment is something we return to—through the mirrors that remind us where we’ve been and the lessons we’ve already lived.
This isn’t a detour. It’s the doorway.
The doorway he stands before, and I’ve already walked through.
This is where healing begins—not in fixing, but in seeing. Not in tying it up in a bow, but in allowing it to break us open.
Like a series you can’t rush, each piece will unfurl slowly. We’ll linger in the spaces between, giving each part its breath.
I’ll be back in your inbox soon with the first chapter—a reflection on the quiet erosion of self. It’s part story, part offering, part mirror—for the ones still in it, still swallowing their needs, still shapeshifting to hold something together.
Not to push, but to name. Not to fix, but to feel.
Let’s begin this slow, necessary unraveling—together. I hope there’s as much medicine in it for you to receive as there was for me in writing it.
With love,
Rhian xx
This piece is part of a series. Check out the other posts in the series here.
