No one ever tells you how lonely it can be, chasing high-functioning careers.
They only speak of success — of life after graduation, of stability, of pride.
They tell you about the prestige, the paycheck, the purpose.
But they don’t speak of the quiet nights that stretch too long,
or the empty dinners eaten in silence,
or the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.

No one warns you about the aching —
not just in your feet or your back,
but in your chest, in that place that once felt full.
The aching for warmth, for laughter in another room,
for a familiar voice calling your name just because.

No one tells you that you’ll miss the sound of home —
the clatter of dishes in the sink,
your sibling’s footsteps in the hallway,
your parent’s voice humming from another room.
That one day, you’d trade everything you’ve learned
just to sit at your kitchen table again,
with nothing urgent to do and nowhere you need to be.

You learn to crave things you never thought you’d miss:
a shared meal, someone remembering how you like your coffee,
a voice that softens when they speak your name,
a conversation that doesn’t revolve around work, or grades, or deadlines.

You learn how to carry the weight of being capable
while quietly falling apart.
You get good at answering, “How are you?”
with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

You become someone who longs for home,
even when you have a place to live.
You begin to understand
that safety isn’t in walls or degrees or diplomas —
it’s in people.
In being seen. In being known.
In being loved without needing to earn it.

And no one tells you
how much you’ll miss that kind of love,
when your days are spent fixing others
but no one notices when you need to be held.