Closeness That Feels Distant

These days, I feel like I live more on planes than in my own home. Another 6 a.m. flight, another interstate landing. The rain is streaking across the cold window beside me, and as usual, when I finally get a moment to myself, my mind begins to wander.

I think of all the times I’ve been close to people — so close I could hear their heartbeat, feel their warmth — yet still feel unseen, unheard, untouched in any way that mattered. You can be hugged by the closest to you and still feel absolutely not held.

Maybe it’s the rhythm of travel, or maybe it’s the way I’ve been thinking about my relationship with God lately — how I’ve drifted from my core, how I’ve chased worldly desires that don’t quiet the ache inside. Or maybe it’s a mix of everything.

It makes me wonder: who am I, really? The version of me I carry inside isn’t translating into the life I thought I should be living. Maybe that’s because for so much of my life, I’ve struggled to express or feel closeness, even with the people who matter most. Maybe we are like two phones in the same room, yet neither of us has a signal.

So many questions. No answers. Just the endless wanderings of a chaotic mind.