Curveballs

My friend Shannon said to me, “You’re the whole damn table, not just a seat at it.”

And I scoffed.

Life constantly throws me pitches so wild that I don’t even bother to swing. I’ve spent so much time just standing there, rooted, hoping the ball would sail past but knowing it wouldn’t; caught somewhere between existential dread and cautious optimism, standing on life’s plate, bat in hand, trying to figure out if I’m even playing the right game.

I’ve been thinking about happiness. About how much it terrifies me. About how seeking it can feel like chasing fireflies in a dark forest - fleeting and frustrating.

Happiness is funny like that. It’s not always the warm glow you expect. It’s often this strange flickering light just out of reach, tempting you to follow it into the unknown. And following it is terrifying. Because what if you actually catch it? What if you hold it in your hands and realize it’s not what you thought it would be? Worse, what if it slips through your fingers, leaving you in a darker place than before? What if you crush the firefly in your big meaty claws? What if it’s all your fault? What if it always was?

And then there’s the loneliness, the voids we carry. You think they’re just part of you, these hollow places that hum in the quiet moments, that tug at you when life slows down. But then something happens. Someone happens. Maybe it’s a voice you haven’t heard in years or a friend who laughs just a little too hard at your terrible jokes. Maybe it’s the realization, sharp and sudden, that there are people out there who missed you. Not just in passing, but deeply. People who look at you and see the shape of the void you’ve left in their lives. These moments sneak up on you, and suddenly, you’re grappling with the idea that you were missed. That you mattered.

And then there are the ones who never let me go in the first place. The ones who threw me breadcrumbs - texts, calls, “woofs” that felt like nothing at the time, but now I see them for what they were: love, not obligation. They kept trying, even when I gave them short responses or left messages unanswered. They reached out again after every get-together I turned down, every phone call I ignored, every gaming session I let slip through the cracks. And yeah, it stung them when I said no. It disappointed them when I wasn’t there. But they kept going, not out of duty, but because they wanted me. They were holding on, hoping for the day I’d grab a breadcrumb and let them pull me back in.

That’s what love looks like, isn’t it? Not grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but the quiet persistence of someone who refuses to let you disappear.

That’s a gut punch. Not because it’s painful, but because it feels impossible. How could someone feel that way about me? How could I, in all my jagged edges and loud opinions, fill a void in someone else?

That’s the hard part: believing it. Believing that the spaces I’ve left behind aren’t just voids, but impressions - shapes only I can fill. It’s easier, somehow, to think of yourself as unnecessary. To listen to that quiet voice that says, “You’re a burden.” That voice has had a front-row seat in my head for years, whispering that every kind word is a fluke, every gesture of care a facade. It’s a venom that numbs you, makes you question every connection you have. And I’ve let it win more times than I can count. Perhaps it’s time to “end the bit.”

Those fucking voices, you know? I’ve let those voices take the wheel too many times. Maybe you have, too. I don’t know what it is about them - why they’re so easy to believe, why they can drown out the truth so thoroughly… but they’re wrong. They’re so wrong it’s almost laughable, but laughing at them takes a kind of strength I don’t always have.

What I’m starting to learn - starting, mind you - is that those voices aren’t mine. They’re echoes of people who got in my head, people who didn’t see my worth or who tried to twist it into something unrecognizable. Of people who tried to shrink me. Of wounds I didn’t know how to close. And I’m trying, really trying, to stop giving them power. To let myself believe the people who look me in the eye and say, “You matter.”

Because I do matter. You do, too.

The truth? The truth is scary. The truth is that there are people who see you, even when you don’t see yourself. People who don’t just tolerate you or put up with you, but want you there. People who have missed you terribly in your absence, who carry their own voids shaped by you. And letting yourself believe that? It’s an act of courage. It’s stepping into the light when every instinct tells you to stay in the shadows.

So here I am, fumbling forward, trying to make peace with the terrifying vulnerability that comes with that. I’m learning to believe the people who’ve held onto me even when I thought I was nothing more than fragments.

Life’s path is unclear, its curveballs relentless, but I’m stepping up to the plate anyway. Not because I know how to play the game, but because I’m learning that maybe it isn’t such a big deal after all.

And if you’re reading this, Roy - you look weird on my desk.