The Things We Avoid (Even When We Love Them Most)

Hi.
I’m Maggie.

And I am a master avoider.

I avoid confrontation, rejection, looking people in the eye, rooms where I don’t know anyone, and—if I’m honest—being seen.

If you’ve read my blog, you know I recently had to give my beloved dog up for adoption.

When we re-homed him, we asked the new family for one thing:
If they ever travel, let us watch him.

Let me explain the we.

I’m single. I live alone. JD was my dog.
But when I couldn’t keep him in my apartment anymore, my best friends took him in. He lived with them as long—maybe longer—than he lived with me. They love him like I love him.

So now, when his new family goes out of town, he stays with them.

Which means I could see him.

And I should be excited.

I should be rushing over there.
I should be counting down the minutes to see my baby.

And I want to.

But I don’t want to do the leaving part.

I don’t want to say goodbye to him.

Again.

I don’t want to tear that wound back open.

So instead, I just…
don’t go.

Not see him.
Not feel the jump.
Not get the kisses.
Not sit with him while he falls asleep on my lap.

It’s easier to avoid the whole thing than to feel both the joy and the grief.

Am I avoiding the joy?
The pain?
The potential rejection?

Or all of it?

Because the truth is, JD has never met a human he didn’t love.
He’d jump on you the same way he’d jump on me.

And somehow that makes it worse.

Because I would love seeing him.

And dread leaving him.

So I stay gone.

——————————————————————————-

I am a processor.

I rarely react in the moment. I need time—sometimes too much time—to figure out why something hurt or mattered.

You won’t catch me yelling Real Housewives–style when someone is rude to me. My brain doesn’t work that fast. My first reaction is usually shock.

If you’ve ever driven with me and a car comes straight at us, you already know.
I don’t yell “LOOK OUT.”
I point and make some prehistoric cavewoman noise that contains zero recognizable language.

I
do
not
think
quick
on
my
feet.

This is both good and bad.

The good:

I don’t say things I regret.
I don’t start fights.
I don’t blow up.

The bad:

I do disappear.

I do avoid.

I take so long to process that by the time I understand what I feel, it seems awkward to go back and talk about it.

That’s where this blog comes in.
Writing is how I process.

But what I’m doing with JD?

That’s not processing.

That’s avoidance.

————————————————————————————

I can tell the difference because of how it sits in my body.

Processing feels thoughtful. Slow. Curious.

Avoidance feels like raised shoulders, a pit in my stomach, and a quiet voice whispering, don’t go.

And lately I’m learning to listen to my body.

Avoidance feels like fear dressed up as protection.

It’s my brain trying to convince me that if I don’t go see him, I can’t get hurt.

But the truth is—I’m not protecting myself from pain.

I’m protecting myself from living.

Because what I avoid most are the things I secretly believe might end me:

Confrontation.
Rejection.
Looking people in the eye.
Walking into rooms alone.
Being seen.
Loving something I might have to leave.

Seeing JD won’t break me.

Crying when I leave won’t break me.

Missing him won’t break me.

But staying away?

That slowly might.

So maybe the brave thing isn’t becoming someone who doesn’t feel loss.
Maybe it’s becoming someone who goes anyway.

Maybe it’s driving over there, letting him jump on me, letting myself laugh, letting myself cry when I leave.

Maybe healing isn’t avoiding the things that could hurt me.
Maybe it’s trusting that I can survive them.

I don’t want my life to get smaller just because I’m scared.

So maybe next time they call and say, “Hey, JD’s here for the weekend,”
maybe I’ll grab my keys.

Maybe I’ll go.

Maybe.