The fast is over.

I broke it this morning with LOVE, and I'm sitting here now trying to make sense of what just happened. Not just the experience of fasting, but everything that came up during it. All the feelings I wasn't expecting. All the realizations that hit me when I couldn't distract myself with conversations, or busyness or the usual noise.

I want to share what I learned. Not in a "here's my spiritual breakthrough" way, but in a "here's what actually happened and what I'm going to do about it" way. Because I think that's more useful. And more honest.

What I expected: Clarity. Discipline. Some kind of spiritual reset where everything would suddenly make sense, and I'd emerge with a clear vision for my life.

What actually happened: Anxiety. Vulnerability. A complete dismantling of the stories I've been telling myself about independence and love.

I thought the fast would give me answers. Instead, it gave me better questions. I thought I'd feel more in control. Instead, I felt more exposed than I have in years. I thought I'd come out of this with a plan. Instead, I came out of it realizing that most of my plans have been elaborate ways to avoid the things I'm actually afraid of.

Here's the thing about fasting: it strips away your coping mechanisms. You can't mask your feelings. You can't distract yourself with the ritual of your habits. You can't use your habits as a way to fill time or avoid discomfort. And when all of that is gone, you're left with just yourself and whatever you've been running from.

For me, what I've been running from is this: the fear that wanting love makes me weak. I've spent years building a life that doesn't need anyone else. I've convinced myself that independence is the highest form of strength. That needing people is a vulnerability I can't afford.

But the fast forced me to sit with the truth: I'm lonely. And I've been lonely for a long time. Not in a "I don't have friends" way. I have community. I have people I care about. But in a "I've never let anyone get close enough to actually see me" way. In a "I've built walls so high that even I can't see over them anymore" way.

And the anxiety I wrote about in my last newsletter—the anxiety about love—wasn't really about whether I'm lovable. It was about whether I'm brave enough to let someone try to love me. Whether I'm willing to risk being hurt if it means being truly known. The fast didn't give me the answer to that question. But it made me realize I can't keep avoiding it.

So here's what I'm doing about it. Not in a "I've got it all figured out now" way, but in a "I'm making intentional choices instead of running on autopilot" way.

I'm practicing vulnerability in small doses. I'm not going to suddenly become an open book. That's not realistic, and honestly, it's not who I am. But I'm going to start letting people see me more. I'm going to stop editing myself before I speak. I'm going to share the messy, unfinished parts instead of only showing up when I have my shit together. This newsletter is part of that. Writing about the anxiety, the loneliness, the fear—that's me practicing vulnerability. And I'm going to keep doing it, even when it's uncomfortable.

I'm examining my exits. The next time I feel the urge to pull back from a relationship—to create distance, to leave before I can be left—I'm going to pause and ask myself: Is this actually wrong for me, or am I just scared? Because there's a difference. And I've been conflating the two for years. Not every relationship is meant to last, but not every ending is necessary either. Some of them are just fear disguised as discernment.

I'm redefining what independence means. I've been operating under the belief that independence means not needing anyone. But that's not independence. That's isolation. Real independence is knowing you can survive alone but choosing to build with others anyway. It's being whole on your own and still making space for partnership. It's understanding that needing connection doesn't make you weak—it makes you human.

I'm creating space for love without making it my whole life. One of my fears has always been that if I let love in, it will consume everything. That I'll lose my work, my creativity, my sense of self. But I'm realizing that's a false dichotomy. I can want love and still want my work. I can crave partnership and still need solitude. I can be a nomad and still build roots with someone. It's not either/or. It's both/and.

I'm being honest about what I actually want. For years, I've downplayed my desire for partnership. I've acted like it's not that important to me. Like I'm fine either way. But I'm not. And pretending otherwise hasn't protected me. It's just made me feel more alone. So I'm being honest now: I want love. I want a partnership. I want someone who sees me fully and chooses to stay. And I'm done apologizing for that.

The fast is over, but the work isn't. Here's what I'm taking with me:

Hunger is information. When you feel a hunger—physical, emotional, spiritual—it's telling you something. Don't ignore it. Don't numb it. Listen to it.

Vulnerability is not weakness. It's the opposite. It takes more strength to let someone in than it does to keep everyone out.

Independence and connection are not opposites. You can be whole on your own and still want a partnership. You can be a misfit and still crave belonging.

Patterns can be broken. Just because you've always done something one way doesn't mean you have to keep doing it. You can choose differently. You can start now.

You don't have to have it all figured out. You just have to be willing to keep showing up, messy and imperfect, and still learning.

I broke my fast this morning, but in a lot of ways, I'm just starting. Starting to let people see me. Starting to examine my patterns. Starting to make space for love without making it my whole life. Starting to be honest about what I actually want.

It's messy. It's uncomfortable. It's terrifying. But it's also the most alive I've felt in years.

So here's to the end of the fast. And here's to the beginning of whatever comes next.