Burning Beneath

I came across a line today that made me wonder:

“Don’t chase butterflies. Mend your garden, and let the butterflies come in.”

Such a simple line. Yet it hit something deep in me.

What makes it even stranger is that today, of all days, I had sent a dating like with the line: “Hi butterfly” because I noticed the woman was wearing a butterfly necklace. And then later, I came across that quote. Moments like that always boggle my mind. I do not believe life is random. Some things arrive with timing so precise that they feel like a whisper meant only for you.

And this one was on point.

The dating world is filled with patterns that repeat over and over again. Awkwardness. Ghosting. Long silences. Someone liking you, then not communicating. People going on dating apps supposedly looking for friendship. The whole process feels strange to me. Forced. Distant. Unnatural. Yet this is the tool we are told to use if we want to meet someone.

And maybe that is exactly what unsettles me.

Because it does not align with who I am.

So then I ask myself:

Why do I always feel the need to go back? Why do I always feel the need to explain my behavior to those who rejects me without knowing me?

Why do I get upset when someone does not reply?

Why does ghosting sting so much?

Why do I take it personally when someone reaches out first, then disappears?

Is it pride?

Is it rejection?

Is it the wound of feeling not good enough?

Is it the thought that maybe they did not like the person inside the profile they saw on the screen?

I think all of these explanations hold some truth.

But the one that stands out the most is this: these platforms do not match my nature.

Dating apps are digital, distant, coded, detached. They reduce human connection into profiles, pictures, delayed replies, and endless guessing. That world does not reflect how I connect. It does not reflect how I feel. It does not reflect how I love, how I speak, how I show up.

And yet, I keep going back.

I cannot tell you how many times I have deleted my profile and recreated it in the last month alone. It has become almost a sharp reaction to the chaos those platforms create in me. Delete. Breathe. Recreate. Hope. Disappoint. Withdraw. Repeat.

So what does that say?

Does it mean I am not ready?

Or does it mean the need in me is still alive?

The need to connect. The need to be seen. The need to share life with another human being.

I took a very long break from putting myself out there. Not only in dating, but even socially. I turned inward, as I often do. I analyzed every corner of myself. My actions. My feelings. My patterns. My responses. I still do.

I am hyper-focused on myself, but also hyper-aware of everything around me.

Every mood.

Every shift in energy.

Every unspoken tension.

Every character entering, leaving, standing near, or passing by.

Part of my childhood trauma made me this way.

I learned to read the room to stay safe.

I learned to sense things before they erupted.

I learned to put out fires before they even started.

Maybe that is why I rarely fight with anyone. I do not remember ever truly fighting friends or colleagues. My instinct when faced with betrayal, confusion, or disappointment has never been attack.

It has always been withdrawal.

I erase the person.

I remove them from my world.

I disappear them from my memory.

So when I face those same patterns on dating apps, my first instinct is no different:

delete the profile,

walk away,

shut the door.

And yet, after a while, I return.

Because no matter how independent I am, no matter how long I can survive in my own space, I am still built for human connection. I crave friendship. Presence. Conversation. Shared energy. Real interaction.

Yes, I can be alone.

But only until I cannot stand the loneliness anymore.

And that is okay.

That is not weakness.

That is not neediness.

That is not failure.

That is simply who I am.

I do not care much for labels like introvert or extrovert. I do not think they capture the depth of what it means to be human. I only know what I feel. And what I feel is that we are not made to live untouched by one another.

Maybe that is why finding someone matters so much to us.

Not because they complete us.

But because they resemble us.

Not in appearance.

Not in perfection.

But in essence.

We are drawn to people who reflect something familiar back to us. Similar humor. Similar sensitivity. Similar depth. Similar interests. Similar ways of speaking, thinking, moving through the world. Maybe what attracts us is not someone who fills our missing pieces, but someone who carries an echo of our own inner world.

And that realization is both beautiful and strange.

Are we, in some way, looking for ourselves in another?

And if I ever found someone who truly resembled me, what would that even look like?

Would it work?

Would it become overwhelming?

Would two people who overanalyze, overshare, overcommunicate, overexplain, feel too much, notice too much, and show up too fully actually find peace together?

Or would they finally feel understood?

Maybe that is the real question.

And maybe the butterfly was never the point.

Maybe the point is the garden.

Maybe instead of exhausting myself chasing what is fleeting, confusing, and misaligned, I am being reminded to return to myself. To mend what is mine. To build a life, a space, an energy that feels true to me.

And then trust that what belongs will recognize it.

Because butterflies do not stay where there is force.

They come where there is life.