The Spaces We Never Name

There are spaces inside me I’ve never learned how to name.

They don’t beg for attention.

They just exist — tucked in the soft folds of everyday life, stitched between coffee stains and grocery lists, hidden behind sighs no one ever hears.

Sometimes they hum when my daughter laughs too loudly down the hallway,

a sound so pure it slices through me,

reminding me that joy and grief can sit shoulder to shoulder and never say a word.

Sometimes they ache when the house falls too quiet —

when I remember that nothing stays full forever,

not houses,

not hearts,

not even hands.

They aren’t sadness.

Not really.

And they’re not happiness either.

They’re something else —

something raw and unfinished, like a song you can almost remember but not quite sing.

No one warns you about the quiet devastations.

The way your child will outgrow your lap — and your arms — and the way you’ll cheer for them with a smile stretched over breaking bones.

The way grief will find you tucked inside the pages of an old book you almost gave away.

The way you’ll catch your reflection in a window — not expecting it — and realize you’ve survived things you never thought you could.

I used to think strength meant fighting harder.

Clawing, roaring, refusing to break.

But I was wrong.

Strength is quieter than that.

It’s sitting inside the ache without numbing it.

It’s loving people while knowing they could leave.

It’s mourning the girl you once were without abandoning the woman you’re becoming.

It’s knowing you can carry both the endings and the beginnings —

at the exact same time —

and still choose to stay open.

We don’t have words for everything.

Maybe we’re not supposed to.

Maybe some things are meant to be felt,

woven into the way we tuck our kids into bed a little tighter,

the way we laugh with our whole chests even when the world is heavy,

the way we wake up and try again even when nothing feels lighter yet.

Maybe the truest stories are the ones we live —

the ones stitched into our scars,

tangled in our laughter,

etched into the spaces we never learned how to name.

And maybe, just maybe,

survival isn’t the hard part.

Maybe it’s allowing yourself to still believe in beauty —

even after everything.

Especially after everything.

And if no one’s ever told you this:

You’re doing beautifully.

Even in the unnamed spaces.

Even in the quiet.

Especially there.

Love,

Jonesy