Healing in the Blue Bubbles

This reflection isn’t about any one person.

It’s about discovering who I am through the way I connect —learning to love myself better in the moments between messages. Every relationship and friendship in my life has helped me grow, and I write these words with gratitude for the hearts who have walked beside me along the way. 🤍

I used to think texting was simply a way to stay connected —tiny blue bubbles carrying quick words from one heart to another.

But then I realized…

Those bubbles were teaching me about me.

And every bubble I sent was shared in vulnerable truth —

a soft offering from my heart,

a little piece of honesty sent without certainty.

A gift the reader could treasure, expel,

or simply read and let drift away.

No demand, no expectation.

Just truth released into the space between us.

Those bubbles held my longing,

my excitement,

my hope,

my fear…

and the soft ache of wanting to matter.

Every message I sent was a small act of courage.

Every silence was a test I didn’t know I was still taking.

Blue bubbles became

a record of my spirals,

my yearning,

my over-giving,

my fear of not being enough…

And my greatest lesson of self-worth.

Because each time I reached too far,

cared too fast,

or waited breathlessly for a reply…

I wasn’t waiting for someone else.

I was waiting

for me.

The bubbles became a mirror.

They showed me

how quickly I moved toward connection

because I feared it would move away from me.

They showed me

how I offered love first

to prove I deserved it later.

They showed me

how silence felt like abandonment

not because of another person,

but because my heart still remembered

a childhood of being unseen.

Attraction isn’t destiny.

Chemistry is not commitment.

And longing is not love.

So I paused.

When my fingers twitched to type

I breathed.

When the silence felt loud

I stayed with myself.

When the green active now dot flashed —

I reminded my heart:

I am allowed to wait and be seen.

I no longer chase the ones who only want

the thrill of my attention

or the flirting of my femininity.

I am no longer available for love

that only meets me halfway.

In the quiet between messages,

I finally heard my own voice saying:

I deserve reciprocity.

I deserve curiosity.

I deserve a people that stays present after the spark.

And in the spirit of playful healing…

this is what those lessons sound like in rhyme:

Healing in the Blue Bubbles

The Poem

I used to watch the blue bubbles

like prophecies on read—

“Are they typing? Did they ghost me?

Is the romance… dead?”

I’d wait as if those tiny dots

held fate inside their glow—

refresh refresh—for validation!

(Thumb deserves a trophy though).

I’d send cute texts and long sweet notes,

then panic when they stayed unseen—

My brain: “They hate you!”

Reality: They’re peeing.

Those bubbles started teaching me

not ’bout them… but me:

why silence felt like danger,

why pausing ruined peace.

’Cause sparks don’t equal “stay for tea,”

and flirting’s not grand

If effort always comes from me?

I choose a different plan.

Now if I see they’re “active now”

and my message gets no reply—

I grab a snack, fluff up my pillows,

and let that nonsense slide.

My worth is not a waiting room,

not paused on someone’s screen—

I’m sunshine wrapped in Wi-Fi,

a whole magnificent queen.