Lately, one question keeps finding its way into my head:
Am I enough?

I’ve been thinking a lot about how easily people seem to walk out of my life. It makes me wonder if I’m the problem, if I care too much, or if there’s something about me that makes people decide they don’t need me anymore.

It started with my friend Matt. We were friends for more than a decade, and then one day, the texts and phone calls just stopped. There wasn’t a big fight or even a goodbye — just silence. To this day, we’re still Facebook friends, which somehow makes it even stranger. He’s still there, but he’s no longer part of my life.

Sometimes I think silence hurts more than an actual goodbye. At least with a goodbye, you know why someone left. When you’re given nothing, your mind starts creating its own answers.

Then came losing my job in February.

People might look at that and think I simply lost a job, but to me, I lost so much more.

I felt like I lost my family.

I deeply loved the people I worked with. The owner became like another parent to me. Another coworker felt like another mom. I was extremely close with the boss’s daughter and had formed a special bond with her son. These weren’t just coworkers I happened to see every day. They became people I genuinely believed would remain in my life long after the job ended.

But when the job disappeared, most of those relationships disappeared with it.

Six months later, that still hurts.

I’m still Facebook friends with most of them, and sometimes seeing their pictures is painful. I see them smiling and continuing with their lives. Sometimes I’ll see a picture of the kid, and suddenly all those memories come rushing back.

Social media creates this strange situation where people can leave your life without ever completely disappearing from it. You get to watch people you once considered family continue living their lives without you.

And that’s when my mind starts asking:
What is so terrible about me that people keep leaving?

There’s still a part of me that believes one day my phone will light up. Maybe Matt will text me. Maybe someone from my old job will call and ask how I’m doing.

And I’ve wondered what I would say.

Would I smile and say, “I’m fine”?

Or would I finally tell them the truth?

The hardest part about abandonment is grieving people who are still alive. There isn’t a funeral or a final goodbye. You know they’re still out there. They could call. They could text.

They just don’t.

And that’s a very specific kind of loneliness.

The last six months haven’t been easy. My depression has gotten worse. My anxiety has gotten worse. Yet I’ve gotten pretty good at smiling through it.

Someone asks, “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Those two words can hide so much.

Sometimes explaining that you’re still hurting over people who left months ago feels impossible. It’s easier to smile, change the subject and pretend everything is okay.

But pretending something doesn’t hurt doesn’t make the pain disappear.

If I ever have children, I hope they never experience this feeling. I hope they never sit alone wondering why somebody didn’t love them enough to stay. I hope they understand something I’m still trying to teach myself:

Someone leaving doesn’t automatically mean there is something wrong with you.

Maybe some people really are only meant to be part of certain chapters of our lives. I don’t particularly like that answer, but I’m slowly learning to accept that it might be true.

I loved these people deeply, and I don’t regret loving them.

I just don’t want their absence to determine how I see myself anymore.

I’m still hurting. I’m still healing. And yes, part of me is probably still hoping that one day the phone will ring.

But maybe healing isn’t forgetting the people who left. Maybe it’s finally being able to remember them without questioning my own worth.