During this trip to Istanbul, I went to a place I hadn’t visited in seven or eight years. I also met an old friend at the same spot where we used to meet.
For a long time I thought nothing would feel the same if I ever came back. But when I arrived early and walked around a bit my heart stayed calmer than I expected. I sat on a bench watched the street, listened to the sounds a familiar language, a familiar air.
I came across some things I had deeply missed. I realized my fear of facing them made sense but there was also something gentle hidden in that fear.
If it weren’t for my friend’s invitation I probably wouldn’t have come on my own. Yet here I was stepping back into feelings I’d avoided for years.
It felt like a small kind of peace. I didn’t cry, I just felt grateful and quietly lucky for what I have.
I found myself thinking a lot about how people once saw me and how I saw myself’ during this trip. I was surprised by how much I had forgotten about who I used to be and how much I’d assumed others had forgotten too.
I heard things that showed me how wrong I was how often I had underestimated myself or felt ashamed of things that others never judged me for. Realizing that even people I once had difficult experiences with still meet me with warmth and kindness felt transforming.
That’s why I started thinking again.about that feeling buried deep inside me. The one that still makes me feel so alive that still brings a quiet kind of happiness. Even with all the bad memories it insists on staying. a feeling full of both ache and grace. I keep wondering how to make sense of it.
On this trip i met some friends from my childhood people I hadn’t seen in years. And that’s when I started thinking again. Are they so accepting because I’m still genuinely happy to have them in my life?
Do the ones I haven’t seen for so long still care about me too?
Maybe the unspoken things between us, the quiet sense of connection I still feel, exist simply because in some way, we still belong to each other?
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