It’s a quiet ache many people carry but rarely talk about.

You pour time, thought, and pieces of your heart into something you create — words, ideas, work that matters to you — and somehow, the people closest to your life are the last ones to notice. The last ones to read. The least likely to pause and say, I see what you’re doing.

It feels confusing at first.

A little lonely.

Sometimes even dismissive.

But it happens more often than we realize.

Closeness doesn’t always lead to curiosity. Sometimes it leads to assumption. When people share history with us, they believe they already know our thoughts, our tone, our story. They think they can fill in the gaps without actually listening. So they scroll past, promising themselves they’ll come back later — a later that rarely comes.

Strangers don’t carry that familiarity. They read with fresh eyes. They sit with the words without preconceived ideas of who the writer is supposed to be. And because of that, they often understand more deeply than those who have known us the longest.

There’s also another layer — one we don’t like to name. Growth can be uncomfortable. When someone’s words reflect change, healing, or questions that touch close to home, it can stir things people aren’t ready to face. Ignoring the words becomes easier than engaging with what they awaken.

And sometimes, it’s simply this: people don’t realize the courage it takes to create. They see the finished piece, not the vulnerability behind it. To them, it’s just another post, another thought shared into the noise of the world. They don’t see the careful choosing of words, the quiet bravery it takes to be honest, to be seen.

So the absence of attention can feel personal — even when it isn’t meant to be.

This doesn’t mean the closest people don’t care.

It doesn’t mean the work lacks meaning.

It means love doesn’t always show up as attentiveness.

And there’s a tender truth many come to learn: the people who feel most understood are often those who found us through our words, not our proximity. They recognize themselves in the spaces between sentences. They stay because something resonated.

The words still matter.

The work still matters.

Even if the ones you hoped would read them never turn the page.

Sometimes, being heard isn’t about who stands nearest — but who is willing to listen.

Until next time,