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Suddenly, I don’t want anyone to know me deeply anymore.

Which is strange, because for most of my life, that’s all I ever wanted—to be understood at the soul level, to be seen without translation. But this past year taught me something I didn’t want to learn: a lot of people don’t want to know you. They want to have you.

They want you possessively, without understanding. They want you because of their own agenda, their own unfinished wounds, their own things they’re trying to hide or cover up. They want you because they think you’ll fit neatly into their story, into their storyline—without ever asking if it aligns with yours.

I’ve had my heart broken before. But never like this past year. And what I’ve come to realize is that lust and fear have quietly ruined this generation. Lust without reverence. Fear without accountability. Everyone wanting closeness, but on their own terms, with no real responsibility for what intimacy actually requires.

So no, I don’t want anybody near right now. And I don’t say that in a self-pitying, “fuck love” kind of way. I say it with clarity. With honesty. With the understanding that at least where I am—where I live—there is simply no one who can meet me in the way I exist.

And before anyone assumes otherwise: this isn’t because I haven’t encountered a true man.

I’ve encountered men.

I’ve had men.

I’ve held men.

I’ve been with men.

And I’ve chosen not to be with men.

That has never been the issue.

The issue is that I don’t want to be something that fits into a slot in someone else’s life. I don’t want to be an accessory, a chapter, a placeholder, or a role someone needs filled. That’s not love. That’s convenience.

I don’t want people who are half-assed about themselves, half-awake in their own lives, half-loving their own existence—because they will never love me back fully. And walking away from that doesn’t make me closed off. It makes me precise.

That’s what happens when deep lovers stop trying to adapt.

They stop mistaking access for intimacy.

They stop confusing desire with devotion.

They stop letting people project stories onto them that were never theirs to carry.

They realize that wanting less chaos doesn’t mean wanting less love.

When love finally comes, it shouldn’t feel like a puzzle to solve. It shouldn’t feel confusing or destabilizing. It shouldn’t feel like a performance or a version of myself I have to curate just to be chosen. And it definitely shouldn’t require me to shrink.

That doesn’t mean I don’t crave love. I do. I crave touch. I crave being held and holding someone. I crave learning the ins and outs of another man—the way he thinks, the way he rests, the way he shows care in the quiet moments.

I just don’t think that’s in my plans right now.

Because I’m tired of being told I’m too much.

Too much.

Too intense.

Too serious.

Too emotional.

Or somehow lacking whatever it is they can’t name.

What people are really reacting to isn’t excess—it’s presence. Depth is confronting. It asks something back. It asks for attention, for consistency, for courage. And everyone wants the experience of depth without the responsibility of meeting it.

This is where discernment sharpens.

Deep lovers stop romanticizing potential. They stop falling in love with who someone could be if they healed, if they showed up, if they chose differently. They start believing what is actually there. They trust patterns. They choose clarity over chemistry.

They understand that solitude can be more honest than proximity. That being alone can feel safer than being misunderstood. That waiting is sometimes an act of self-respect, not lack.

So no—I’m not shutting down.

I’m standing still.

And if love finds me again, it will have to come correct. It will have to meet me whole, not halfway. Present, not projected. Real, not rehearsed.

Because deep lovers were never meant to adapt to shallow worlds.

They were meant to be met.