we treat the things we have to wait for.
I realized today that I added three extra minutes to my drive.
Three.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would notice. Just a tiny alteration to a route I had already decided on—one little detour from a schedule that was supposed to run a certain way.
And somehow, that felt familiar.
Maybe because lately I’ve been doing the same thing with people.
This was supposed to be my free week.
The little pocket of time I usually leave open for the people I love—the spontaneous coffee, the last-minute plans, the “let’s finally catch up,” the little pieces of life that don’t need a calendar invitation because surely we’ll figure it out.
Except… we haven’t.
Plans become maybes.
Maybes become reschedules.
Reschedules become another week.
And somehow, spontaneity keeps becoming procrastination wearing a prettier dress.
I think I finally understand something about myself.
I’ve been treating my availability like an open door.
No appointment necessary.
No reservation required.
Come in whenever.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because when something is always available, people stop realizing that it is valuable.
It’s strange how differently we treat the things we have to wait for.
A dentist appointment four or five days away can somehow become the axis of an entire week. You rearrange your schedule. You think about it the night before. You make sure you leave enough time to get there. You remember it because it matters—and because the next opening might be another month away.
You protect what is limited.
And I think I’ve been making myself too unlimited.
I’ve been saying, we can move it.
We can reschedule.
It’s okay.
Whenever works.
Until “whenever” quietly became “never.”
And after enough repetitions, something starts to feel different.
Not anger.
Not even resentment, exactly.
Just depletion.
Three strikes, perhaps.
Except there was never really a home run.
The home run was me running home.
And maybe home was never a place.
Maybe home was me.
There’s something almost uncomfortable about realizing that the person I’m frustrated with is partly me—not because anyone else’s choices aren’t theirs, but because I’ve been participating in the arrangement.
I’ve been giving away access and then wondering why it doesn’t feel precious.
I’ve been leaving the calendar unlocked and then feeling disappointed when nobody treats my time like something they had to earn.
And I don’t want to become petty.
I don’t want to keep score.
I don’t want to punish people for having lives, priorities, responsibilities, or different rhythms than mine.
People are imperfect.
Honestly, that might be the most perfect thing about them.
I know this because I am, too.
What makes someone imperfect can also be the exact thing that makes them human. I’ve spent enough time understanding people to know that not every inconsistency is intentional, not every cancellation is rejection, and not every missed moment is a measurement of someone’s love.
But patterns are different.
Patterns whisper what individual moments are too polite to say.
And when the same feeling keeps arriving from different directions, eventually I have to stop asking everyone else what they’re doing and start asking myself what I’m allowing.
Maybe my availability has simply been too generous.
Maybe I’ve been so easy to reach that nobody has had to understand what it costs me to keep being reachable.
And perhaps boundaries aren’t always about saying no.
Sometimes they’re simply about no longer saying yes before you’ve even been asked.
I think that’s what I’m learning now.
Not to disappear.
Not to become cold.
Not to make people chase me.
Just to stop abandoning my own time in the name of being easy to love.
Because I do want meaningful connections.
I want people who want to see me.
Who commit.
Who make room.
Who understand that reciprocity doesn’t require perfection—it requires intention.
And maybe that’s where my expectation lives.
Not in expecting people to match me perfectly.
But in hoping they meet me somewhere.
At the same velocity.
With the same willingness.
With enough desire to make something happen instead of endlessly talking about when it might.
And maybe that’s the part that hurts.
Not losing people.
But watching the version of them I carried in my heart slowly depreciate.
A little less admiration.
A little less excitement.
A little less tenderness attached to their name.
Until eventually, something I once considered priceless starts quietly filing itself under:
not worth my time.
And strangely enough, I’m thankful for that information.
Because the worst thing someone can do isn’t show me that they aren’t perfect.
It’s show me that they aren’t worth the space I’ve been reserving for them.
So tonight, I’m releasing the expectation.
Not the love.
Not the memories.
Not the possibility that people can still surprise me.
Just the expectation that everyone will value my time because I value theirs.
That part isn’t mine to control.
What is mine is the door.
Who gets the key.
How long I leave it unlocked.
And how quickly I remember that I don’t have to keep standing outside my own life waiting for someone else to arrive.
Three minutes changed my route today.
Maybe that’s all this is.
A tiny detour.
A small adjustment.
A quiet recalculation.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough to remind me that sometimes the destination isn’t the problem.
Sometimes you simply need to change the way you get there.
And if I have to run anywhere from here…
I’ll run home.
To me. 🔐
