Longing for Meaning: Navigating the Depths of the Heart's Yearning

There is a distinct kind of yearning that carves its place deep within the heart—a yearning that does not simply fade with time or distraction. It may grow quieter, but it remains no less profound. On this particular day, at the end of a brutal year, an impossible month, and a series of days that felt cruel in their demands, I found myself longing in a way I hadn’t since childhood. For the first time in years—decades, perhaps—all I wanted was a hug that could never come again.

Not just any hug, but 𝒉𝒊𝒔 hug—the kind only a father figure could give, where strength and tenderness coexist, and where, for a fleeting moment, the world feels utterly safe. It was the sort of hug that reassured the four-year-old version of me that no matter how loud the storm outside raged, within his arms was unshakable calm.

But now, as a grown woman—someone who has shouldered life’s weight with almost defiant resilience—I know no one else in this world will ever offer me that embrace again. Though he is not gone, life has a way of changing things, and that particular comfort has become a memory—a whisper from the past, untouchable.

Adulthood changes you in ways no one quite prepares you for. It's not just about the responsibilities—the bills, the endless decisions, the perpetual juggling act of “what comes next.” It’s about becoming the buffer for others’ choices and the shield against their missteps. You carry the weight of their burdens, mistakes, and heartbreaks as though they are your own. You become the fortress—solid, dependable, unyielding.

For so long, I believed I had to be that fortress. People needed me to be strong, to endure. I learned to suppress my vulnerability, packing it away in the corners of my soul where it couldn’t disrupt the delicate balance of everything I held together. But this strength came at a cost. It gnawed at me slowly, leaving behind an ache I ignored until it roared loud enough to demand my attention.

And so, here I am. After days that feel surreal in their hardship, after a year that has tested my limits beyond recognition, I find myself in a place I haven’t been since I was that wide-eyed little girl: longing for someone to hold me and say, without words, “It’s going to be okay.”

This yearning isn’t just for physical contact—it’s for reassurance, for solace, for the kind of unconditional love that only existed briefly within the boundaries of my childhood. It’s the longing to be entirely cared for, even if just for a moment. It’s the realization that, in his arms, I didn’t have to be anything but myself.

But that hug, that sanctuary, is gone. And the world does not pause to mourn with me. It is a loss I’ve only just recognized after 45 years. The relentless pace of life pushes forward, dragging me along with it. In this moment, I no longer want to be the unyielding fortress—I want to collapse into the embrace of someone who no longer exists, who hasn’t existed for a long time.

Here I sit with the memory. It is blurry around the edges now—a collage of sensations more than clear images. The warmth of his arms, the scratchy texture of his flannel against my cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. These fragments are all I have left, and I gather them close, as though they might fill the void. They don’t, of course. But they remind me of what it was to feel that unshakeable love.

As the sun hides behind the clouds on this exhausting day, I wonder if this ache will ever fade. Perhaps it won’t. Perhaps it’s part of growing older—to lose people, places, and versions of ourselves that once were. But in this loss, I find something else, too—a quiet resilience that stems not from being unyielding, but from allowing myself to feel.

And so, while I cannot have the hug I yearn for, I give myself space to grieve its absence. To feel the ache, the longing, the bittersweet nature of love and loss intertwined. In some ways, the longing itself is proof of what I had—it is the echo of love that was once mine, and will forever be part of me.

Tomorrow, I will return to being the fortress. But today, for now, I will sit with this ache. I will honor the memory of those arms that held me securely and the little girl who felt, if only for those moments, that nothing could ever harm her.