In the Absence of Belonging

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry eight.

Middle of today, I felt a pull towards my stack of old journals... without looking, two pages stuck together came out... writing on both sides. I didn't know what it was about, but as I read through it, turning it from handwritten words into a typed copy I could save... what unfolded and found was a voice I barely recognized but deeply remembered. A voice raw, unfiltered, reaching for meaning in a world that hadn’t yet offered it. I wrote these entries twelve years ago, and I’m reading them now—out loud—for the first time.

There’s a certain vulnerability in letting others see the versions of us we wrote in private—especially when those versions hadn’t yet softened, hadn’t yet healed.

But that’s what Notes from the Hollow Bone is about.
It’s not a highlight reel.
It’s not resolution.
It’s the process.
The truth-telling, the excavation, the way we come into ourselves not all at once—but line by line.

In the Absence of Belonging

I used to think love meant staying,
even when it broke me into pieces that looked like belonging.

I reached for hands that trembled with their own ghosts,
called it passion when it was really my own reflection,
fractured and unfinished.

I searched for home in borrowed bodies,
in eyes that blinked but never saw me.
I called it connection—
but it was always a mirror,
showing me what I believed I deserved.

My mother’s silence stitched itself into my skin—
not loud, but constant.
And somewhere between absence and approval,
I decided I was too much to love properly.

But even the most fragile truth holds beauty—
not because it’s gentle,
but because it lived through the storm.

Now I know:
Love is not the one who stays—
it’s the one who sees.

And I am no longer hiding.
I am no longer apologizing for the ache I carry.
I am becoming—
with every breath that lets the past go quietly.

~~~~~~~

What follows is an excerpt from the original journal entry I wrote on March 31, 2013—one of the deepest roots of the poem you’ve just read.

I never felt that my mom loved me… OK, that’s deep… but why do I feel that? She used to say I reminded her of my father—and I’ve never heard her say a good word of him. Therefore, I deduce that I am not good as well by her standards.

I know in every sense that she is wrong… but this I know as an adult.
As a child, I grew up feeling unworthy of her love—constantly seeking her approval, her affection… but never receiving it.

As I write this now, I feel sadness for the child I was… but not in the present sense. Because those feelings and that version of me—though still inside me—have begun to release their grip.

That old belief? That I wasn’t worthy of love?
It no longer owns me. But I remember her. I remember how she held on.

For those who want to sit in the full story with me, I’ve transcribed it below.

• Click here to read the full handwritten journal entry, transcribed.

  Transcribed from a 2013 handwritten journal entry. Shared here with reverence.

  I am who I am. I wear a lot of black—don’t think I’m dark, it’s just easy. I’m not a typical girl—I don’t care to shop or wear what’s in style. I love shoes, but my feet can’t take the cute ones I adore, so I keep it simple.

  I am 39 and people say I look 29… hell, I don’t care. They see the outside but can’t handle the inside. There’s so much more than what I show. No excuses, no promises, no guarantees—that is me.

  I cry when I’m hurt—I express my feelings. I don’t like to lie… but I can.
  I love passionately or not at all. I get misread, misunderstood, because others are not willing to walk to the edge of this world with me—to the edge of insanity—and look out at it all. I find comfort in pain. That says a lot.

  There is still so much more for me to learn, to experience, to live, to love, and understand.
  I love to talk… but man, I love to think, because I love to question the typical, to push past limits.
  I look at the skies and stars and clouds—and I dream.

  My soul is incomplete… because I’m not done living. Life and living is a process of self-searching, understanding.

  In relationships, we respond, react, love, hate, cry—and search for this completeness that will take a lifetime to obtain.
  I don’t want to obtain it. Because that would imply I am done.
  And what will there be after I’m done?
  This I don’t know. And I’m not consumed with it anymore.

  Life is a process, and I want to sit quietly and be pensive—not by force (that’s dull), but naturally. The ritual would take away from the beauty of just being—in the moment.

  Ultimately, I want that person who can hold my hand with no fear and no condition. Just exist. Just be with me and take this journey together—in a relationship without ownership, without possession or titles. Just the freedom of choosing to share everything—every thought, every emotion—and examine ourselves deeply together, in relation to where we stand in this world.

  To learn about ourselves… yet together.

  We have fear because of what is unknown.
  But to be absent of that fear—to live in absence of judgment—is to be truly comfortable being ourselves. To understand why we love, why we hurt, why we cry and laugh. I want someone who can look at the skies and share their thoughts unfiltered. Someone who can make love separate from love and attachment. Someone who can fall deep into me, yet still know we are separate and simultaneously together.

  Someone who can understand my thoughts, my words, and my silence.
  Someone who will never settle, but continue to dream. Someone strong enough to let go of this worldly understanding and go into a deeper realm—not knowing what’s there.

  In a paused thought, I got sad wondering if I’ll ever meet that person.
  For a moment, I told myself I didn’t care… but that’s not true.
  I do care. I do dream for it.

  In the meantime, life is to continue its existence. It’s living.
  And I have much to learn about where I exist in the world.

  [Second Entry – same date]

  As I sit here in the dark, allowing myself just a small clip reading light, I have no idea what words will follow.

  My question for myself is on relationships—and why I am attracted to or drawn into those I cannot have.

  At the surface, I have justified that it is not of my choosing or fault. That answer satisfied my mind for a moment. But damn these thoughts—I know that’s not the truth.

  I think… I choose those I cannot have because I don’t feel, at my core, that I am worthy of being loved.

  But even that feels incomplete.

  Let me go deeper…

  I never felt that my mom loved me. Okay, that’s deep.
  But why do I feel that?

  She used to say I reminded her of my father—and I’ve never heard her say a good word about him. Therefore, I deduced that I must not be good either, in her eyes.

  Now, as an adult, I know she’s wrong. My father is a good man.
  And I am a good person.
  But as a child, I grew up feeling unworthy of her love—constantly seeking it. Constantly trying to earn it. And never receiving it.

  As I write this, I feel deep sadness for that child I was.
  Not sadness in the now, but sadness in the remembrance.
  Those feelings and actions are in the past. They can’t be undone.

  But they seeded a belief in me.
  A belief that I was unworthy.

  That belief?
  It shaped how I’ve loved. How I’ve stayed. How I’ve sought.

  I know I am beautiful. I am smart. I would be a wonderful partner, a wife, a friend.

  And yet…

  There is still fear.

  That someone who loves me will fail me.
  Will leave me.
  Even though none ever have.

  Maybe that’s the real ache—I’ve always left first.
  If I could even say anyone ever truly had me.

  The fear of abandonment comes from my dad.
  From his rejection.
  From choosing someone else over me.

  I realize this more deeply now as I write.
  I remember the day I sought him out—after the divorce.
  I was maybe 15 or 16.

  He chose his new wife and life over me.

  That moment was confirmation.
  Confirmation that I come last.

  It’s a painful theme—one that’s echoed in every love that followed.

  And yes, I’ve loved a married man.

  I knew. And I still walked forward.
  Not blindly—but willingly.

  I told myself I didn’t know at first, and that part was true.
  But I stayed even after I found out.

  I wanted to believe him.
  I wanted him to want me.

  He lived a double life.
  And I became part of it.
  Maybe he loved the escape from his own world.
  And maybe I loved the illusion that I was worthy of it.

  But pain came. Often.
  And I stayed.

  My thoughts are interrupted now.
  This will have to continue later.

You are not alone in the ache. And you are never too much to be loved properly.

With Grace & Ink,
Mai

This is not the whole story.
My mother wasn’t completely wrong.
My father wasn’t completely good.
I just couldn’t see clearly back then.

But now I do.
And more will be written—when the next piece arrives.