On letting go, love that changes form, and the soul's longing to be witnessed.
There are few feelings more intimate than being truly seen. To have your essence understood without needing to explain, justify, or filter. For those of us who speak through creation — through song, poetry, hands in soil, or ceremony — our art becomes our language. When that language isn't heard, it leaves a quiet ache.
I’ve only been singing for about five years. Before that, I couldn’t carry a tune. But over time, I learned — not because I wanted to perform, but because I had something in me that needed to be expressed. My songs are not entertainment. They’re soul transmissions. Carriers of emotion, memory, and healing.
Yet, despite this, my husband never liked them. And not even in a neutral way — he would sometimes leave the room when I began to sing. He said my songs have too much text, too many words. And I understand that not all people resonate with all art. But this was different. These songs were part of my soul speaking, and it began to feel like that part of me had nowhere to land in our relationship.
Some time ago, I had a friend who simply listened. He sat in front of me and looked me in the eye as I sang and truly received what I offered. It stirred something unexpected in me — not a romantic crush per se, but a falling in love with the experience of being seen. It was both exhilarating and heartbreaking, because it made me realize what I was missing.
For a long time, I felt something was missing in my romantic relationship, but I couldn’t find the words. My husband is a good man. We've been together for 12 years—2 of dating and 10 married. We've grown a lot together. But somewhere along the way, I started realizing I felt unseen in a deep way that words failed to capture.
Recently, I was invited to witness the wedding of a gay couple. What touched me so deeply wasn’t just the ceremony—it was the look in their eyes as they faced each other. Soul recognition. Reverence. Vulnerability. These two had been together for 14 years, even longer than us. And what I saw in them was not infatuation or the excitement of something new. It was soul seeing. And in that moment, I could finally name the thing I had been missing. I wanted to be seen like that.
And I realized something else: I love my husband, and I always will in a way, but I don’t believe he is capable of seeing me in that way right now. Maybe he never was. Maybe he will be one day, with someone else, when it is safe enough for him to let himself be seen. But I couldn’t keep holding on to the idea that if I just waited long enough, or worked hard enough, I would one day feel fully met. That moment brought a deep clarity. It was the true letting go—not in bitterness, but in acceptance. In truth. In love.
My wish now is for our relationship to evolve from being husband and wife into something more aligned: good friends, co-parents, companions on different paths. And I really wish for Linas to find someone who is able to see him deeply and with whom he feels safe to be vulnerable enough to allow himself to be fully seen too.
Some endings are not failures. They are gentle doorways into something more honest, more sacred, and more free.