There was a time when I thought the hardest part of my pain was what I was going through.
Looking back, I think the hardest part was feeling alone in it.
I didn't start behind glass.
I started in a family.
A mother's voice in the kitchen.
Sisters' laughter down the hallway.
The familiar comfort of people who knew my stories before I knew how to tell them myself.
For most of my life, connection felt effortless. We belonged to one another in the way families often do. Not perfectly, but naturally.
Then life changed.
A season arrived that I wasn't prepared for.
I found myself carrying pain I didn't fully understand, trying to make sense of experiences that felt bigger than the words I had available. I needed support, but I didn't know how to explain what was happening inside me.
And somewhere along the way, it began to feel as though a sheet of glass had appeared between us.
At first, it was barely noticeable.
We were still talking.
Still seeing one another.
Still occupying the same spaces.
But something was different.
I felt myself pulling inward while silently hoping someone would come closer.
They saw changes in me.
They noticed I was quieter.
More withdrawn.
More emotional.
Less like the version of me they were used to.
I wanted them to understand.
I wanted them to see beneath what was visible.
To recognize the fear.
The exhaustion.
The sadness.
The uncertainty.
But understanding isn't always as easy as love.
And that's what I couldn't see at the time.
From my side of the glass, it felt like distance.
From their side of the glass, it may have felt like helplessness.
I believed they were stepping away.
Perhaps they believed they were giving me space.
I was searching for answers.
They were searching for ways to help.
Neither of us knew exactly how to bridge the gap.
So the silence grew.
And with silence came stories.
The stories I told myself sounded like:
They don't understand.
They don't see me.
They don't know how much I need them.
The stories they may have been telling themselves sounded like:
I don't know what to say.
I don't want to make things worse.
I wish I knew how to help.
What I know now is that both things can be true.
I can honor the loneliness I felt without assuming it was a lack of love.
I can acknowledge the pain of feeling unseen while also recognizing that the people who loved me were struggling with what they could not fully understand.
That realization changed something.
Not overnight.
Not all at once.
But slowly.
Because the moment I stopped asking who was responsible for the glass, I became curious about what existed on the other side of it.
I began to see my family differently.
Not as people who failed me.
But as people carrying their own fears, limitations, and uncertainties.
People who loved me but didn't always know how to love me in the ways I needed.
And I began to see myself differently, too.
I realized how much courage it takes to reach for connection when you've been hurt.
How vulnerable it is to tell someone what you need.
How easy it is to mistake misunderstanding for rejection.
The glass didn't disappear because someone suddenly found the perfect words.
It didn't shatter in one dramatic moment.
Instead, it cracked through conversations.
Through honesty.
Through attempts that weren't always graceful.
Through choosing to reach for one another again and again.
The glass grew thinner each time someone stayed present in a difficult conversation.
Each time a question was asked instead of an assumption made.
Each time one of us chose curiosity over defensiveness.
Each time we remembered that understanding doesn't require agreement and connection doesn't require perfection.
What I once thought was a story about abandonment became a story about something else.
A story about the complexity of being human.
About how love and misunderstanding can exist in the same relationship.
About how people can care deeply for one another and still struggle to find their way through pain together.
Most of all, it became a story about connection.
The kind of connection that doesn't come from having all the answers.
The kind that grows when people are willing to remain present even when they don't know what to say.
The glass taught me something I carry with me now:
Sometimes the distance between us isn't created by a lack of love.
Sometimes it's created by unspoken pain, unmet needs, fear, and misunderstanding.
And sometimes healing begins not when the glass disappears, but when someone is brave enough to place a hand against it and say,
"I'm still here."
And someone on the other side responds,
"So am I."
