I See You, But I Can’t Walk This for You

A Reflection for the One Still Running

I see you.

Not just the version you show the world, but the soul behind it—the one who’s tired, even when you laugh… the one who keeps reaching for the very things that are hurting you.

And I care.
That’s why this is so hard.

Because I’ve wanted to help. I have helped.
I’ve shown up, stepped in, stood beside you—believing that maybe this time it would be different.
That maybe, just maybe, love would be enough to break the cycle.

But it hasn’t been.
Not because love failed… but because you’re not ready.

You say you want change, but your life tells a different story.
You keep choosing what’s familiar over what’s healing.
Pain has become a place you know how to live in—and anyone who gets too close to pulling you out gets pushed away.

I’ve tried to carry you, but the weight isn’t mine.
I’ve offered comfort, but you’ve used it to avoid change.
I’ve believed in you—but I can’t believe for you.

So this is the line I have to draw—not out of anger, but out of truth:

I can’t walk this road for you.
I can’t stand in the fire every time you light the match.
I can’t make you want something you’re not yet willing to fight for.

And I won’t keep helping you stay stuck.

Not because I’ve stopped caring, but because you matter too much to keep letting you live like this without consequence.

This doesn’t mean I’ve given up on you.
It means I’m stepping back so you can stand up.

Because if you ever decide to choose healing…
If you ever want to climb, even one step out of this…
You won’t have to do it alone.

But I can’t drag you there.
You have to choose it.

So for now—I’ll wait.
Not on your doorstep. Not in the middle of your chaos.
But in the quiet hope that someday you’ll look up and say:
“I’m ready to climb.”

And when you do, I’ll be there.