The Doors That Had to Close

I’ve spent a lifetime trying to save everyone.

It’s an unconscious kind of love — this need to serve through action and care.

But there’s only one of me.

And the universe has a way of reminding me when I wander too far.

When opportunity knocks, I run.

I grind. I hustle. I fight like hell to make it to that door before it closes.

Because deep down, I know it can close — and that thought alone fuels the fire.

You push through the chaos,

wipe the dust from your face,

adjust the pant leg over your boot,

and reach for the knob — the one you’ve been working toward for weeks.

The conversations had been good.

The energy felt right.

Momentum was building, and I was ready to move —

ready to serve, ready to show up.

But sometimes, caring too much pulls you too far.

I said yes to too many, tried to save everyone,

and in doing so, I forgot — there’s only one of me.

By the time I reached the first door,

it closed quietly in front of me.

No slam, no anger — just a gentle click.

A reminder that timing doesn’t wait forever.

The second door?

Same story.

Another opportunity I believed in, prepared for, pushed toward.

But again — click.

By the third, I could feel the weight of it all.

The exhaustion. The doubt. The quiet ache of being too late.

I smiled through the goodbye,

but inside, I was collapsing.

It wasn’t their fault.

They all deserved someone who could show up when they needed it most.

And I had stretched myself too thin to be that person.

But I was grateful for the time I had with them —

for the trust they shared,

and the space they gave me to try

Still — it hurt.

It hurt to know my care had turned costly.

That the same heart that built trust had also built delay.

But looking back now,

those closed doors were mercy wearing patience.

Because if any of them had stayed open —

I’d have walked straight in,

kept giving,

kept bleeding,

and lost myself in the service of others who needed more than I could give.

Instead, I was forced to pause.

To walk away quietly — wind finally at my back,

breath steadying,

heart healing,

body remembering rest.

At first, it didn’t feel like peace — it felt like defeat.

But over time, the sting faded.

And in its place came something familiar —

that faint spark of readiness.

Then, quietly, on a lonesome walk, I found them —

doors in the corner, closed, but never really shut.

The kind you almost overlook when you’re searching too hard.

I turned a handle, and it yielded like it had been waiting all along.

Warmth — the smells of a home cooked meal poured out,

the sound of work waiting,

and the unmistakable pull of belonging.

They weren’t new opportunities — they were the right ones,

already open, patient, and waiting for me to arrive.

Because I wasn’t ready before.

And it wasn’t time.

The doors that closed?

They were never punishment.

They were protection.

And the ones that stayed open —

they’re still waiting for the version of me

that refused to quit walking.