It was 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, and I was staring at my phone screen like it held the secrets of the universe. The cursor blinked mockingly in the empty text field, while above it sat the contact name that had been haunting my thoughts for weeks: "Dad."
The message I'd typed and deleted seventeen times was simple: "I'm sorry for not calling more. I miss our talks." Fifteen words that felt heavier than a freight train.
My finger hovered over the send button for what felt like an eternity but was probably closer to twenty minutes. In that suspended moment, every excuse I'd made for the past six months cycled through my head like a broken record. Too busy with work. He probably doesn't want to hear from me. What if he's asleep? What if he doesn't respond?
But the real truth sitting in my chest like a stone was simpler and more terrifying: What if he did respond?
I thought about all the conversations we'd had when I was younger, sitting on the porch while he taught me how to change a tire or explained why baseball was actually poetry in motion. When did I stop listening? When did his stories become interruptions instead of treasures?
The cursor kept blinking. Send. Delete. Send. Delete.
Then my phone buzzed with a notification. A text from him: "Can't sleep. Thinking about that camping trip we took when you were twelve. You caught that fish and insisted we throw it back because it looked sad. Made me proud then, makes me proud now. Hope you're well, kiddo."
My chest cracked open right there in my kitchen. He'd been thinking about me too. He'd been waiting for a bridge I thought I had to build alone, not realizing he'd been standing on the other side with blueprints of his own.
I deleted my carefully crafted apology and typed something true instead: "I caught a fish today too. Threw it back. Still think of you every time. Can we talk tomorrow?"
His response came in thirty seconds: "I'd love that."
That night changed everything about how I approach the conversations I'm scared to have. The words we don't send live in us like splinters, working their way deeper every day. But courage isn't about having the perfect words—it's about having the imperfect ones and sending them anyway.
The text I almost never sent opened a door I'd been walking past for months. Now we talk every Sunday, and sometimes the conversations are awkward, and sometimes they're beautiful, but they're always real.
Your draft folder isn't a storage unit for good intentions. It's a graveyard for connections you never made.
Send the text. Make the call. Have the conversation.
The cursor is still blinking.
The message I'd typed and deleted seventeen times was simple: "I'm sorry for not calling more. I miss our talks." Fifteen words that felt heavier than a freight train.
My finger hovered over the send button for what felt like an eternity but was probably closer to twenty minutes. In that suspended moment, every excuse I'd made for the past six months cycled through my head like a broken record. Too busy with work. He probably doesn't want to hear from me. What if he's asleep? What if he doesn't respond?
But the real truth sitting in my chest like a stone was simpler and more terrifying: What if he did respond?
I thought about all the conversations we'd had when I was younger, sitting on the porch while he taught me how to change a tire or explained why baseball was actually poetry in motion. When did I stop listening? When did his stories become interruptions instead of treasures?
The cursor kept blinking. Send. Delete. Send. Delete.
Then my phone buzzed with a notification. A text from him: "Can't sleep. Thinking about that camping trip we took when you were twelve. You caught that fish and insisted we throw it back because it looked sad. Made me proud then, makes me proud now. Hope you're well, kiddo."
My chest cracked open right there in my kitchen. He'd been thinking about me too. He'd been waiting for a bridge I thought I had to build alone, not realizing he'd been standing on the other side with blueprints of his own.
I deleted my carefully crafted apology and typed something true instead: "I caught a fish today too. Threw it back. Still think of you every time. Can we talk tomorrow?"
His response came in thirty seconds: "I'd love that."
That night changed everything about how I approach the conversations I'm scared to have. The words we don't send live in us like splinters, working their way deeper every day. But courage isn't about having the perfect words—it's about having the imperfect ones and sending them anyway.
The text I almost never sent opened a door I'd been walking past for months. Now we talk every Sunday, and sometimes the conversations are awkward, and sometimes they're beautiful, but they're always real.
Your draft folder isn't a storage unit for good intentions. It's a graveyard for connections you never made.
Send the text. Make the call. Have the conversation.
The cursor is still blinking.