Where the Light Often Misses
There is a kind of life that happens in the wings.
Not quite in the center. Not quite unseen.
A life just outside the spotlight—quiet, thoughtful, steady.
It is the life I have lived.
I have never been the one people rush toward, never the name that stirs excitement in a room. I speak softly, and soft voices don’t tend to travel far. I write what I feel, I share what I love, and often it seems to float into the air without echo.
I’ve learned not to measure my words by how many read them. Still, there are days when it stings a little—the post that goes unnoticed, the idea met with nods but not follow-through, the silence after the sharing.
And yet, I continue.
Not because the world has crowned my work with attention, but because something inside me insists: this matters. Even if only a handful see it. Even if no one does.
My parents read what I write. My grandparents too. A friend here or there will reach out with a kind word. And sometimes that is enough. Other times, I wish for more—not acclaim, but resonance. Not applause, but recognition.
It isn’t a longing for attention, exactly. It’s a longing for witnessing. For someone to pause long enough to feel the life behind the lines.
And maybe that’s the tender work of this kind of life:
To keep tending the garden, even if no one comes to visit.
To keep placing the candle in the window, even if no one sees the light.
To trust that the act of making is a kind of devotion, no matter the audience.
I have found kinship with others who live this way—those who are not often celebrated, but who carry meaning like warm stones in their pockets. Those whose work moves like water underground. Unseen, but still shaping the landscape.
We do not need to be visible to be real.
We are allowed to crave connection.
And we are allowed to continue, even without it.
So I write.
So I make.
So I remain.
Some days I am the echo.
Some days I am the voice.
And either way, I know this:
What is true does not need to be loud to last.
—L.B.
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