"They Don't Change Because You Want Them To."

“It has taken a lifetime to understand how easily I can secretly wish for things to change, and in my secrecy prevent true change from happening.”
—Mark Nepo

I used to believe that if I just held it all together—if I was patient enough, kind enough, forgiving enough—then maybe the people I loved would meet me halfway.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

But not for the reasons I told myself back then.

I spent years quietly hoping my husband would see me, that my mother would understand me, that someone, anyone, would choose me without me having to convince them I was worthy. And in all of that waiting, wishing, and whispering my needs under my breath…I was disappearing.

I see that now. I see it every day in the eyes of the women I work with—women who have given decades to keeping the peace, holding the weight of the family, and keeping their own longings tucked away like a forgotten sweater in the back of a closet. It’s there, but no one ever reaches for it. Not even them.

They come to me unraveling. Quietly, at first.

“I’ve tried everything to make this work.”
“I’m tired of pretending everything’s fine.”
“I can’t do this anymore. After 30 years… I’m done.”

And almost like clockwork, the moment they start stepping into their clarity—he decides he’s finally ready to change.

But it’s not because he’s changed. It’s because her silence stopped being his safety net.

By then, it’s often too late.

Because real change isn’t sparked by someone else’s discomfort. It’s born when we finally stop betraying ourselves.

And yet—we still ask the same questions:
Why do I keep hoping?
Why do I keep hiding what I want?
Why do I let fear of the unknown weigh more than the pain I already know?

It’s not weakness. It’s human. It’s survival.
But eventually, that survival mode stops feeling like a life.

So let me offer this: if you’re still waiting for someone else to change so you can finally feel free, you might be holding the wrong key.

Change doesn't begin out there.
It begins with you—not in a dramatic, burning-everything-down kind of way—but in the quiet, steady way you stop apologizing for your truth. The way you start letting yourself want what you want. The way you finally unlock that box under the bed and remember the sound of your own voice.

If you're somewhere between the aching recognition that “this can’t go on” and the terrifying first step into something new—I'm here.
No pressure. No plan. Just a conversation.