Seen, Loved, Safe: What I’ve Always Wanted

I think sometimes people misunderstand what it means when I say I “want attention.”

It’s not about being selfish.

It’s not about being dramatic.

It’s not even about needing to be the center of the room.

It’s about wanting to be seen finally.

I’ve never really had anyone I could rely on.

I’ve been on my own for as long as I can remember.

And the trauma of that doesn’t just disappear; it sticks to you.

It settles in your body, shaping the way you move through the world, the way you approach people, and the way you see life itself.

When you’ve never had a safe place, you grow hungry for it. Hungry for all the things people normally get in their lives without even thinking twice: someone to call when things fall apart, arms that feel like home, a voice that says, “I’ve got you. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

I’ve never had that.

I’ve always dreamed of it, but I’ve never actually felt it.

And because of that, I carry this ache inside of me. This longing. It’s not about wanting too much, it’s about wanting the basics I never got.

Love that feels safe.

Someone who sees me without me having to fight for their attention.

Someone steady.

Someone accountable.

Someone I can lean on without fear they’ll let go.

I don’t need a thousand promises.

I don’t need perfection.

I don’t need fireworks.

I want to feel safe.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

That’s all I’ve ever needed.

That’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.

And maybe that’s why it feels so heavy, because I’ve gone my whole life without it.

Maybe that’s why, when I finally open up to people about even a sliver of what I’ve been through, it makes me nervous. Most people in my life don’t get to know my past. They don’t get to know what I’ve survived. They don’t understand why I celebrate things that come naturally to most.

But when I do share, it means something.

It means I’ve trusted them enough to see a part of me that almost no one else gets to see.