Every relationship begins because something about the other person makes us feel good.
They awaken a part of us that feels alive — a softness, a confidence, a version of ourselves we want to keep close.
That’s why we choose who we choose.
Not because of who they are, but because of how we feel in their presence.
They reflect our best parts back to us — and in that reflection, we remember who we could be.
When someone loves us, it isn’t their words or gestures that bind us — it’s the way we feel seen through their eyes. When they withdraw, or change, or leave, we grieve not just them but the version of us that existed only in their company.
That’s the secret heartbeat of attachment: the self, seeking itself through another.
And then — there’s death.
When someone we love dies, a part of our identity collapses. The mirror breaks. There’s no one left to reflect that particular shade of us. The silence that follows feels unbearable — not only because they are gone, but because a piece of us disappeared with them.
But death also teaches what awareness tries to whisper:
That everything we ever sought through others — love, safety, belonging — was never in them.
It was always waiting within us.
Others only helped us remember, for a little while.
To know this doesn’t make love colder. It makes it purer.
We begin to love without needing to hold.
We begin to see that every connection, every goodbye, even every death, is life showing us different mirrors — each one reminding us, again and again, who we really are.
And when we finally see ourselves clearly enough, we stop clinging to reflections —
and start becoming the light that makes them possible.
Here are some questions I want to leave you with:
- Who do you feel most yourself around — and what part of you do they reflect?
- What version of you disappeared with someone you lost?
- Can you hold that version inside you now, without needing another to mirror it back?
- What would it feel like to love someone — or let them go — without losing yourself in the process?