No Longer Waiting: Becoming the Love We Long For
There is no true life without love. Life without love is painful. Mechanical. Mere survival. And in such a life, we cannot- do not- exist fully.
Without a secure attachment to love, our attachment to life is precarious and full of insecurity.
Loving care is not optional. It is the necessary condition for aliveness—for emergence, for creativity, for the ability to show up in this world with a whole heart.
Without love, life becomes too terrifying. Too exhausting. Too unsafe to fully inhabit.
When our arrival in this world is not met with love—attuned, embodied, unwavering care—we do not fully land. Something in us stays hovering, unsure if it’s safe to be here.
That part—the tender, creative, truth-telling part—waits.
It waits for love to appear. To make things okay again. To make the world feel safe enough to land in. It waits for love to soften into. To rest inside. To exhale. To breathe in- lungs full.
Until love arrives, we remain in the waiting room.
Not a literal one, but a psychic and existential holding cell—a liminal space where we continue to function, perform, and move through life, but never quite land inside of it.
This is the waiting room of life postponed.
If you’ve experienced living in a kind of in-between state—not fully alive, not fully embodied, not quite arrived in the world—then you know the waiting room.
If you’ve ever felt like you were floating just outside your own existence—
If you’ve ever felt unseen, or untouched by care—
If you’ve ever held your gifts in, unsure whether the world was interested—
Then you know the waiting room.
When we exist in the world without the necessary conditions of love, we remain there—suspended—until love becomes possible. And while we're there, everything that makes life worth living—our voice, our creativity, our wildness, our longing to connect—remains in hiding.
We don’t believe anyone will care. We don’t believe what we have to offer matters.
We don’t believe we matter. The absence of love becomes the fact of life- something we learn to carry as a given, something we come to expect.
And so we pendulate between the hunger for full expression and the terror of being rejected in our fullness.
Like the literal waiting rooms of our lives—reception areas, hospital corridors, airport lounges—this inner waiting room is a threshold we linger in, caught between our deepest longing and the unbearable uncertainty of what will meet us when we fully arrive.
One voice that gives this phenomenon both depth and legitimacy is that of British psychoanalyst and pediatrician D.W. Winnicott, who devoted his life to understanding what makes a self feel real—and what happens when love and care are absent in the earliest stages of life.
His work centered around one essential truth: the self does not emerge in isolation. It is formed, and found, through relationship.
In Playing and Reality, Winnicott wrote: “It is a joy to be hidden—and disaster not to be found.”
These words pulse at the center of this piece.
Because the waiting room—the psychic space we enter when love is missing—is where hiding turns into despair. Where being unseen is no longer protective, but wounding. Where we wait, often unconsciously, for the kind of care that might finally find us.
But when no one comes—when we are not met by love, mirrored by care, or held with enough consistency to feel real—something in us goes quiet.
Our gifts go quiet.
Our joy goes quiet.
Our trust in life becomes tentative. And then- it fractures.
And so we remain in the waiting room—not because we are weak or unmotivated—but because the risk of emerging still feels too great. Because love was not there at the beginning. And we are still not sure it will be there now.
At its deepest level, the tension of the waiting room is the question of life or death:
If I leave this waiting room, will I live—or will I die?
You may have felt this tension rise in literal waiting rooms. The moment we’re called into the office, something ancient stirs. Ancestral anxiety. Would I be cared for? Would I be heard, received, taken seriously? What if I’m rejected, ridiculed, dismissed? Deep down, there is fear of a terrifying possibility that our reaching will go unanswered.
Many of us don’t know why we prolong visits to the doctor, why we’d rather tolerate the anxiety of worsening conditions than reach out for help. But the why lies in the earliest of pains—in the question of whether we will be received or denied—and in the desperate desire to never, ever feel that pain again.
Leaving the Waiting Room:
If the absence of love can fracture us, it is also love—generous, steady, deeply present—that can bring us back. In the absence of what we needed then, we must become the very presence we longed for. That is the only way.
We cannot wait for love to break down the doors of our waiting room.
We must open them ourselves.
We must walk through.
And- we must become the presence of love that eluded us at the start.
And so, we must be both:
The life willing to arrive. Willing to be born. Willing to be here again.
And the love that was not there to meet us. But is here now, ready to embrace us.
We must become the tether. The arms that reach back in time and hold what was once left unheld. The unwavering presence that stays—through every step, every silence, every stumble.
The ceaseless, inexhaustible love we once needed—counted on—and now can finally receive.
Only then can we leave the waiting room.
Only then can we enter the world.
Enter the body.
Enter the life that is truly, wholly, faithfully our own.
✨ Personal Practice: How do you like to be found?
The human heart longs to be seen—not just glanced at, but truly found. Winnicott said, “It is a joy to be hidden—and disaster not to be found.” This practice invites you to explore what it means to be found in a way that feels safe, nourishing, and authentic.
Step 1: Reflect on how you like yo be found
When in a space that feels supportive or contemplative, gently ask yourself: When someone truly notices me or remembers me, what kind of attention feels good? What kind of words, gestures, or ways of being make me feel seen and valued?
What are the ways you like to be found? Some possibilities to consider:
-Do you feel held when someone says something affirming, like “I love how you…” or “I’m proud of you for…”?
-Do you feel seen when someone simply listens with quiet presence?
-Does it feel good when someone reflects back your efforts or the small ways you show up?
-Or perhaps it’s a kind look, a touch on the shoulder, or shared laughter?
There are no right or wrong answers. Notice what feels true for you.
Step 2: Practice finding yourself
Now, imagine finding yourself in that way—the way you just named. How can you notice and hold yourself with the same care and attention?
You might try:
Saying a phrase out loud or in your mind that affirms your efforts or worth, such as: “I see you and I love how you…” or “I’m proud of you for…”
Writing a note to yourself reflecting something you did well or a quality you love about yourself.
Placing your hand on your heart or belly as a gesture of kindness and presence.
Step 3: (Optional) Practice being found with another
If you feel called, invite a trusted friend, partner, or community member into this practice. Take turns finding each other by sharing what you notice and appreciate—what you see and value in the other.
Ask each other: “How do you like to be found? What kind of attention feels good to you?”
Practice responding with words or gestures that honor that preference.
🌸 This is not about perfection or performance. It is about connection—to yourself and to others—in a way that feels genuine and life-giving.
You can return to this practice any time you feel unseen, unmoored, or in need of grounding in your own presence.
🪷 A Personal Note
This piece continues the thread of The Waiting Room: A Dream of Initiation. But where that essay explored the waiting room as a space of psychological and spiritual preparation, this one dives into the why—why we wait, and what it costs to live a life deferred.
At its core, this is a meditation on love—not romantic love, but the foundational kind: the attuned presence that makes life feel safe enough to fully inhabit. For those of us who did not receive that love at the beginning, something in us learns to wait—for care, for recognition, for permission to fully arrive.
This is a love letter and a wake-up call. A reflection on what happens when love is missing—and how we become the ones we've been waiting for.