The Island

I got good at isolation. Not the dramatic kind — no moving away, no disappearing for weeks. Mine was quieter than that. I just stopped answering the phone. I let texts sit. I told myself I'd call back tomorrow and tomorrow never came.

Nobody noticed for a long time, because I still showed up. I still sat in the pew, still made it through the day, still laughed at the right moments. But there's a difference between wearing a mask in a room full of people and slowly making sure there's no room left to wear it in. Isolation isn't really the absence of people. It's a quiet decision, made a hundred small times.

I used to picture it like an island — my own little patch of ground, water on every side, and I told myself I liked the view. Self-sufficient. Low-maintenance. Easy. Nobody had to worry about me because I wasn't handing my worry to anybody.

Here's the part that took me embarrassingly long to figure out: isolation feels like protection. It is not protection. It's just delay. It doesn't stop the storm — it just makes sure you're standing in it alone.

If you're reading this and something in it sounds familiar — the second ring you didn't answer, the message you meant to reply to three days ago, the quiet talent you've developed for seeming fine from a comfortable distance — I'm not writing this to shame you. I lived on that island. I know exactly how reasonable it feels from the inside. I also know, from the other side of it now, that the water around that island isn't as wide as it feels, and there are people standing closer than you think.

Before you close this out: think of one person — a friend, a sister, someone from church, anyone — you could send a real text to today. Not "I'm fine." Something true, even if it's small. Then leave their name (or just "I thought of someone") in the comments below, so you're not carrying even that first step by yourself.

This is a small piece of a larger story I'm telling in my upcoming book, Leave the Fog Behind. If this post found you on your own island, you're not as alone there as it feels.

Crushed Olive Ministries