Katrina used to think love was like a lightning strike. Sudden, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore. Maybe that’s why it scared her for so long. She grew her hair long, so it covered her face when talking. She dressed in baggy pants and sweatshirts because criticism felt like a hurricane and she could hide behind her clothes. She had changeable moods. Good one second, bad the next. No one understood her, least of all her family. Not even the dog responded to her needs.

Her emotions arrived like storms, loud and fast, and bigger than anything she knew how to handle. Connecting with others felt impossible. She wanted closeness, but the moment it arrived she panicked. She wanted love, but she couldn’t trust. She wanted to be understood, but she didn’t know how to let anyone be close enough to try.

Then she met Stephen.

Katrina started going to the gym after her therapist suggested it. She enjoyed working out, and she knew she needed a structured day to be effective. The weight work helped her expel unwanted emotions, and she enjoyed pushing herself. One day, a young man showed up. His name was Stephen, and he was exactly what she’d been looking for, but could never have.

The first time he asked her out, she said no. Finally, by the sixth time, she laughed as he walked over, and she ultimately said yes. She told him on the first date that she had emotional and trust issues, and he didn’t care. She reviewed the things that he could expect, and he shrugged his shoulders. He looked into her eyes and said, in a whisper, trust me. He didn’t try to change her. He didn’t try to fix her, but he stayed long enough for her to start rescuing herself.

She remembered the first time she noticed her own growth. They were sitting together on the grass behind his apartment, watching the sky turn into a flame as the sun set into the hills. She felt the familiar rush of fear. Fear that he would leave. Fear she would ruin everything. Fear that she was too much.

But that day, she paused before the fear overtook her. As her therapist suggested, she noticed the way the sunlight warmed her shoulders, the way the breeze flowed through her hair, and the sand tickling her feet. She breathed in the ocean, the sunscreen, the salty air. Even Stephen’s presence felt steady beside her. She didn’t run from the fear, and she didn’t judge it. She just let it come into being without letting it control her. Eventually, the fear passed. The fear didn’t kill her, and it didn’t make her run. It just faded away without harming her.

Mindfulness, she thought. She didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the first moment she felt herself changing. It was the first time her emotions didn’t dictate who she was. It was the exact moment she discovered she was the observer, not the absorber of her emotions.

There were other moments too. Moments when her emotions surged so quickly, she didn’t know what to do with them. Moments when she wanted to run or lash out or shut down. But instead of reacting instantly, she started naming what she felt. She started asking herself what was really happening.  She started choosing responses instead of being swept away by impulses.

She used the pause before reacting. It wasn’t easy work. It was hard. Learning to regulate her emotions made her feel like she was driving the car, a vehicle she had once thought uncontrollable. She stopped herself from screaming about boundaries and came to realize that other people had boundaries too. She understood that boundaries weren’t all about her, but about connecting with others, even when the words she heard were hard to hear. A pause helped her: a deep breath and allowing herself to feel the anger flow through her. She observed; she didn’t absorb, and that changed everything.

Distress intolerance became her lifeline on the days when everything felt too heavy. When she worried about Stephen pulling away, when she felt abandoned even if nothing had happened, when her thoughts spiraled into worst‑case scenarios, she learned how to sit with the discomfort instead of trying to escape it. She learned how to soothe herself without making things worse. She learned that pain didn’t mean catastrophe and that fear would not kill her.

She learned to tell Stephen how she felt. She learned to tell Stephen what she needed. She learned to say, I’m scared, instead of pretending she didn’t care. She learned to ask for reassurance without apologizing for it. She learned to set boundaries without fearing they would push him away. She learned to stay in a conversation without shutting down or exploding.

She learned how to be honest.

But most of all, she discovered that her thoughts were her own. She didn’t need to change as others demanded. She just needed to explore her thoughts and feelings until she became familiar with them instead of being afraid or angry of them.
And Stephen listened. He didn’t always understand, but he tried. He didn’t always know what to say, but he stayed. He didn’t always get it right, but he cared. And for the first time in her life, she started to believe that maybe she wasn’t too much. Maybe she wasn’t impossible to love. Maybe she was just someone learning how to love in a new way.

Katrina’s grandmother often said: life is a process. It is lifelong, and you are not the only one learning. We all are.

Katrina still has moments when fear grips her, when emotions overwhelm her, when she doubts herself or him or everything. But now she has tools in her toolbelt, like awareness, patience, and most of all, hope.
​
Every now and again, Katrina takes a down day to reflect or just lie in bed with her sweats on. She remembers when she thought love had to be dramatic to be real.  Now she knows it can be supportive, quiet, steady, and something you can grow into.

Stephen isn’t her cure. He isn’t her anchor. He isn’t the reason she is healing. But he is someone she cares deeply about. He is someone who will walk beside her while she learns how to walk on her own. And that feels like the beginning of a love story she’d never thought possible. 

​At twenty-two, Ava lived her life in two speeds. Too fast in her car. Too careful with her heart. The first one everyone noticed. The latter she hid well.

“Slow down, Speed Racer,” her friends yelled as she slid into the parking lot of the tennis courts five minutes late and somehow still carrying an iced coffee she hadn’t finished. She tried to get out of the car, tripped, and the coffee went flying. She glanced at the ceiling of her car. Taupe streaks dripped down, across the steering wheel and onto the floor. By the Grace of God, it missed her tennis outfit.

She grinned. Not showing a hint of embarrassment.

As always, people saw her smile first. Her timing was perfect, her jokes effortless, but her smile, the one everyone commented on, made strangers assume she was fearless. Spilled coffee? No big deal. Life goes on.

In actuality, she was desperately shy. She was awkward with compliments and uncertain about meeting new people. Especially after her last heartbreak. The breakup ended badly. It wasn’t dramatic in public, but messy in the places nobody saw. A broken heart, crumbling self-confidence, and pain. Her heart remembered when promises were broken, and the calls she waited for stopped cold. It was a complete ghost of her humanness. She wasn’t even worthy enough for a text.

The worst part was that she had been in love. Was still in love. Months later, she still caught herself reaching for her phone. Checking for texts. There was no closure, no sad partings, nothing. She was just, in her mind, unworthy.

So, she did what she always did. She drove too fast. She played tennis. She laughed louder than she felt. She concentrated on her game. She forged ahead into online classes. She took psychology, Jungian philosophy, even a dash of Freud. Each class helped. Each class, she understood more about herself. Unfortunately, she didn’t understand why she’d been ghosted.

On a warm Saturday morning, she arrived at the tennis courts with her usual brazenness. She grabbed her racket and headed toward the courts with her usual mix of confidence and invisible panic. She was a good, if not great, tennis player. Already her palms were sweaty, and she wondered how many times she’d have to say I’m sorry before the match ended.

Then she stopped, squinting her eyes. Someone new was there. Tall. Reddish-brown hair. Blue eyes. She moved closer. His eyes were the color of sparrow eggs, though she had to question herself because she wasn’t close enough to see them

The guy wasn’t movie-star perfect. No. He was better than that. He was relaxed. At ease. And as she moved closer, she could see his blue eyes through his glasses. He stood at the net talking to two older players, listening more than speaking.
When one of them laughed, he laughed too, not loud, not showing off.

Butterflies. In her stomach. Their eyes met. Ava looked away immediately. She felt as if he were kind, compassionate, and deep. She resonated with him. She adjusted the grip tape on her racket. Noting that it really didn’t need to be adjusted at all.

“Need a fourth?”

She looked up.

He was standing right there.

Close enough that she noticed his eyes weren’t bright blue, but really were the color of sparrow eggs. As she stared, she realized they had changed in the light. A sudden flush of embarrassment, and she forgot how words worked. “Uh.  Maybe. I mean yes. If… if you play.” Brilliant.

He smiled. “I can play.” He put out his hand, “I’m Daniel.”

She extended her own hand. Yup, she thought, chemistry, as flesh met flesh. But she reminded herself that there were those times when one person felt it and the other didn’t. She felt it, but looking into his eyes, she didn’t see a return of excitement. So, she drew back her hand and waited.

Nothing.

She led him onto the court and introduced him around. He was likable, affable, and definitely not intimidated. In fact, every time he looked at her, she felt like she could miss every shot and he wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was real. Or was he presenting a mask as so many people wore? Masking was something she was working on. She wanted to be her true self. If someone didn’t like her, she wanted it to be because she was real. Not just another person with a perfect mask.

She frowned slightly at herself as she lifted her racket and walked toward the open court.  

“Hey,” he said. He tossed her a ball. He asked, “Singles?”

She stared.

“Tennis singles?” Daniel laughed. A sincere, funny laugh that she got.

She answered, “No, chess,” and rolled her eyes. Funny. She liked funny.

They took opposite baselines.

Daniel served first.

The ball came fast.

Not aggressive or violent, just fast and clean. She returned the first serve, loving the sound of the tennis ball on synthetic gut. Taut, strong. She returned the shot.

Then he sent a deep forehand to her backhand. He raised a hand. “Sorry.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No need to apologize.”

His smile widened. His teeth were straight, his lips wide and not too thick. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

She said, “Game on.”

The first few games were brutal. Sweat began to pour down Ava’s forehead onto her visor. The rim would be saturated by the time the games were over. Daniel wasn’t showing off. Which somehow made it worse. He was patient. Consistent. He returned everything.

She lost the first three games and became quieter with each one. Old thoughts started arriving. Too slow. Too awkward. She repeated I’m sorry so many times she lost count.

At 3–0 Daniel walked to the net. “Can I tell you something?”

She shrugged.

“You’re trying to win points.”

She glanced at him. “That is usually the goal.”

His eyes softened. “You stopped playing when you started judging yourself.”

That annoyed her because it felt true. She bounced the ball once. Twice. She pointed toward the back of the court, encouraging him to get ready. She served. She aced it.

Daniel blinked. “Oh.”

She smiled. Her confidence rose. Everything about her felt lighter. She forgot Daniel, she forgot the game. There she was. She loved tennis, and it began to show.

Five-all.

Six-all.

Tiebreak.

People gathered outside the fence.

Point after point.

She earned a match point with a shot that clipped the line. She held steady. She could feel the wind in her shirt, could smell the hydrangeas that bordered the court. She needed one point. Just one. She readied herself as Danel served. She returned deep.

Backhand.

Slice.

Lob.

He smashed.

She reached.

The ball floated back.

Daniel sprinted.

Stretched.

Net.

Game.

Match.

Ava won.

The court went quiet for half a second.

Then applause.

She stared. “I won?”

Daniel walked to the net, smiling. “You did.”

She met him at the net and stopped. Because she suddenly remembered she was shy and that she liked him. Then she remembered that her attempt to like people had not gone well. All her insecurities reasserted themselves.

Daniel leaned his arms on the net. “You know what I noticed?”

She swallowed. “What?”

“You smiled the whole second set.”

Her chest tightened unexpectedly. He looked at her. Not at her body or her hair, and not even like he expected anything from her. He just looked at her, and she felt safe, like she could stay with him forever. She laughed nervously. Then said, “That’s embarrassing.”

His expression softened. “No. You have a lovely smile.”

Ava looked around, expecting to see her friends hugging the gate. But everyone was gone, except for the two of them. There was a long pause. She cleared her throat, then another long pause.

Daniel smiled and asked, “Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

Her heart started beating faster as he walked the net around to her side. She studied his features. He wasn’t startlingly handsome. He was just lovely. He was just perfect. She nodded once.

He stepped around the net and touched her face gently. Then he kissed her. It wasn’t a dramatic kiss, nor was it reckless. It was warm. Steady. Like arriving somewhere instead of falling into something. When they were done, she looked at the ground. All the old assumptions poured in.

He touched her shoulder, and she couldn’t look up. Which made him laugh.

She covered her face. “You don't understand.”

“What?”

“I’m never going to act normal around you again.”

He smiled. “Good. I don’t want you to.” 

She glanced at him, appreciating his warm humor. 
​
Then he picked up a tennis ball and handed it to her.

“Same time next Saturday?”

​For the first time in months, she didn’t think about her ex. She didn’t rehash the breakup. She just smiled and said, “Yes."

Sandy was approaching thirty and had yet to find her perfect match. Her preference was to meet someone in person at a sporting event, party, or some such place that did not require texting. Unfortunately, she couldn't find just the right person.

She considered herself different and was never tempted to be anything other than herself. She didn't need a lot of people in her life which is probably why she couldn't find someone. She was a combination extrovert/introvert. Most of her energy could be drained in a single snap if she was emotionally overwhelmed. Then it would take her days to build up her reserves. A prospect she never looked forward to. However, if she wanted to meet someone, she had no choice other than to put herself out there. 

So, she did.

As soon as she saved her information, there it was. A like and a text. A quote from Marcus Aurelius. Now what the hell was she supposed to do? She studied it a while, unsure if she would respond. Everyone had warned her what to stay away from. She was not to trust charm. She would see it as polished or scripted. Watch for promises that were hard to believe, they were a sure red flag. That promises sometimes came with wives, children, even addiction. Always watch out for sexting. The minute that came up she was to move on immediately. Lastly, she was to watch out for love-bombing texts.  No one said anything about Marcus Aurelius.

What she was supposed to look out for was honesty. Someone who wasn't afraid to state their wants, needs, and desires. Who wasn't afraid to disagree. Who was their own person. Someone who knew what they wanted so there was no guessing, no wondering, no fear, and no anxiety. 

Hum, she wondered. What were the odds of that on a first text? Especially a quote from Marus Aurelius.

But the text caught her eye.

It was different. 
                                                                                                             ****

Randy hated online dating, but he was busy and rarely had time to meet new people. He owned his own business and sometimes was out of town for weeks at a time. He dreamed of marriage and children. He wanted the things that gave life meaning. Family was one of those things. He was aware of a few things his friends cautioned him about: He was not to trust affection that arrived too fast in a text message. He was to move past someone who needed money really quickly, but most of all, he was not to fall in love at the first text.

He decided to write a message that was anything but ordinary.  Hoping to get a response that was unusual as well. 

                                                                                                                ****

Sandy read Randy’s quote out loud. He wrote: You always have the option of having no opinion.

She considered her answer and wrote: Most people would rather argue than think.

Randy replied: Most people would rather control than understand.

That should have been the end of it. But Sandy didn't think that either of them was trying to impress the other, and strangely, that made her, and apparently him, continue with their texts.

Their conversations became routine. Morning greetings turned into long discussions about life. They spoke about principles, though neither used the word often. It was simply the framework they had both discovered separately: control yourself, be yourself, tell the truth, endure what you must, and do it without bitterness.

Sandy discovered that a real relationship scared her to death. Mostly because she'd never had one. ​When Randy disappeared for several hours, Sandy assumed he was speaking to someone else. She worked through it though. She hadn't known him before, didn't know his routine, and discovered that he was probably out doing things he needed to do.  

                                                                                                         ****

Randy, on the other hand, thought Sandy was hiding something when she avoided answering personal questions. When she was busy in the evenings, he assumed she was on a date with someone else. 

​Soon, Randy discovered that neither punished the other for suspicion. Instead, they answered texts carefully and plainly.

I was at work, he would text.

I don’t share quickly, Sandy would reply.

He didn't feel manipulated, there wasn't any guilt, and, he thought, no performance on her part.  

One night, he texted: I keep expecting you to ask me for money.

                                                                                                          ****

Sandy stared at the message for a long moment before typing back: And I keep expecting you to lie to me.

Three dots appeared on the screen. Disappeared. Returned.

Then Randy wrote: Maybe we’re both waiting for disappointment because it feels safer than hope.

Sandy reread that sentence three times. For the first time in years, she felt understood instead of examined like a bug under a microscope.

Weeks passed.

Sandy never exchanged dramatic declarations of love. There were no midnight confessions or promises of forever. Instead, there was consistency. She loved that. She loved not having to guess, to know what he was thinking.  Randy messaged when he said he would, giving her confidence. She texted without trying to fix him, which she thought would give Randy a sense of security.

They disagreed sometimes, but neither used silence as punishment. Neither threatened to leave the conversation. Neither tried to win. Instead, they negotiated.  Slowly, for Sandy, trust formed the way mountains form. Pressured layers one text at a time. ​Yet even then, she hesitated to meet him. Text was safe. Distance was safe. Reality carried risk. It was best this way.

Randy, Sandy learned, feared discovering she had invented herself online. Sandy feared that Randy was better at pretending than most. They lived about 100 miles apart. They were both very safe. Very protected.  And as long as they didn't meet, no one could get hurt. 

Finally, after nearly six weeks, Randy sent a message.

There’s a coffee shop halfway between us.

Sandy’s pulse quickened immediately, which upset her. She hated overwhelming emotion and before she had a chance to bottle it up, it spilled over. Still, she typed: Okay.

The morning they met, rain washed the city in shimmering diamonds. It was cold and slushy, so she left early to make sure she was there on time.  She arrived first.

The coffee shop smelled of roasted beans and vanilla. Quiet jazz played overhead. Croissants, biscuits, chocolate and fancy coffee were available. She took a deep breath and chose a table near the window so she could see him arrive, partly from anticipation, partly from caution, and, if she was honest, partly because she was afraid. She checked her phone twice for the time.

Then the door opened.

Randy walked in wearing a dark coat dampened by mist. He looked older than his pictures, but not in a disappointing way. He had dark hair, chocolate-colored eyes, was tall, well at least to her. He looked real. Tired around the eyes. Calm in the shoulders. A man who had survived things.

He spotted her instantly and smiled. 

She smiled right back.

They stood there for one suspended moment, studying the evidence of each other. There were no autocorrects, no filters, no edited replies, and there was no time to craft a perfect response. ​Just truth. Just who they are. 

Randy walked toward her slowly. “Sandy?”

His voice was gentler than she expected. “Yes.”

He nodded once and sat down across from her.

For a few seconds, neither spoke. Oddly, it wasn’t uncomfortable, and Sandy realized she wasn’t afraid. That surprised her the most. A waitress arrived, and they ordered coffee. Simple. Black for him, tea for her.

When the waitress left, Randy studied Sandy carefully. “You’re quieter in person.”

“So are you.”

He laughed softly.

It was the first genuine laugh she had heard from him. She loved it, found the person sitting across from her warm, and inviting. The conversation unfolded naturally after that. Not perfectly. Not magically. There were pauses, awkward moments, and occasional misunderstandings. But underneath it all was something steady.

Sandy didn't need to exaggerate.

Randy didn't seem to be performing a role. When he spoke about his failed marriage, he didn’t blame his ex-wife for everything.

When Sandy described the years she spent alone, she didn’t paint herself as innocent. She admitted her fears, her hesitation, and her pain. 

He told the truth.

She told the truth.

At one point, Randy looked out the rain-covered window and said, “You know what’s strange?”

“What?”

“I don’t feel like I need to protect myself from you.”

​Sandy lowered her cup slowly. She had learned many things over the years: endurance, restraint, and self-control. But one lesson mattered most now: fear should not govern decisions.

She studied the man sitting across from her. Not perfect. Not flawless. But disciplined. Honest. Steady. A person of character. And character, she realized, was rarer than chemistry.

​“You know,” she said quietly, “I almost canceled today.”

“Me too.”

“Why didn’t you?”

​Randy smiled faintly. “Because avoiding disappointment isn’t the same as living wisely.”

The words settled between them with unexpected weight.

Outside, rain continued falling against the windows. Inside, the world felt strangely still.

Sandy had spent years believing trust was naive. Randy told her he had spent years believing generosity invited betrayal. Both had mistaken caution for wisdom. But their chosen paths had never meant closing themselves to life. It meant facing life honestly, without illusion and without surrendering principles.

For the first time in years, Sandy didn't feel lonely. Not because loneliness vanished, but because she no longer had to hide from him.

Randy reached across the table slowly, giving her enough time to refuse.

Sandy looked at his hand.

Then she placed hers in it.

No fireworks exploded. No dramatic music played.

Only calm.

Only certainty.

And somehow, that felt far more powerful than passion ever had.