When I look back on my life, one thread stands out clearly: connection. It has been the thread stitching every season together, sometimes fragile, sometimes unbreakable. I haven’t just sought it; I’ve fought for it. Protected it. Refused to let it unravel, even when the world around me pulled at the seams.

That thread started forming in childhood. I grew up in a home where I often felt like the peacemaker, the one smoothing edges and reading the room. My mom was especially close with my brother, and my dad was especially close with me. What most people didn’t know was that my mom quietly carried her own struggles with mental health. It wasn’t something talked about openly back then. But even as a child, I felt it. I learned to notice moods, to smooth things over, to do whatever it took to keep the peace.

At the time, I thought people-pleasing was noble, a kind of love or even strength. What I didn’t understand was how much it cost me. People-pleasing isn’t the same as kindness. It doesn’t come from freedom; it comes from fear — fear of rejection, fear of rocking the boat, fear of not being enough. Looking back, I can see how much of myself I tucked away to keep others comfortable. And yet, even in that maladaptive pattern, a seed of something good was forming. It sharpened my awareness of others, taught me to notice what people weren’t saying, to sense tension in a room, to anticipate needs. Those instincts could have trapped me in silence forever, but instead they became the soil where loyalty and empathy took root. As I’ve grown, I’ve learned to let go of the fear and keep the gift: the ability to show up for people in a way that is real, steady, and authentic.

Even while people-pleasing was shaping me, loyalty was pressing through. One of my earliest tests of that loyalty came in sixth grade. My family had moved to the “country,” a place with safer schools but kids whose lives looked very different from mine. Suddenly, vacations, houses, and brand names mattered in ways I hadn’t seen before. I quickly made a friend who wasn’t wealthy either. When I was invited to sit at the “popular table,” I asked if she could come too. The answer was, “I’ll have to ask.”

Inside, I knew that wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to be. It just didn’t feel right to leave a friend behind because someone else was offering me a seat. So although I was thankful for the invitation, I said no thanks. The next day, they invited us both.

At twelve years old, I made a choice that still defines me: I won’t trade loyalty for acceptance.

That same loyalty carried into high school. As a cheerleader, I was visible, but belonging to one group or status was never what mattered most to me. I moved easily between circles, choosing connection over cliques. I wanted people to feel welcome. I wasn’t the loudest or flashiest, but I was steady, the kind of person people knew they could count on.

In my junior year, my family moved, and I had to leave behind the friendships I had spent years building. Still, I worked hard to stay connected. I wrote letters and made long-distance phone calls back when every minute came with a cost. Even if the conversations were short, I saved my money to make sure they happened, because those friendships mattered to me. Starting over at a new school was harder than I expected. I felt like an outsider at first, but in time I found my footing, made new friends, and created a space for myself again.

That pattern continued into adulthood. No matter where life has taken me, I’ve been the one to keep relationships alive. Before social media made it easy, I was the one writing, calling, visiting, and making sure people stayed connected. Even after moving away, I was often the one organizing reunions or planning get-togethers, sometimes laughing at the irony that those who lived closest to each other waited for me to bring everyone together. Staying connected hasn’t always been easy, but for me, it has always been essential.

Adulthood didn’t erase that thread; it revealed it more clearly. I became the friend who stayed connected, the one who made sure relationships didn’t fade. For years, I struggled with the imbalance. I longed for someone to match my effort, to show up for me the way I showed up for them. Eventually, I had to accept that most people aren’t built that way. And instead of resenting it, I began to recognize it: this is who I am. This is what I bring. My loyalty is not a flaw. It’s a gift.

That gift has been tested in different ways throughout my life. It was there in middle school, when I chose loyalty to a friend over the comfort of popularity. It was there in high school, when I worked to stay connected after moving away. And it is here now, in one of the hardest seasons of my life. Circumstances created distance I never wanted and heartbreak I never imagined. For someone who has always fought to keep people close, the temptation was to give in to despair. Instead, I chose the only thing I know: to keep holding the thread, to keep showing up in whatever way I can, to refuse to let love be erased.

Still, I know that connection isn’t simple. It isn’t always as straightforward as choosing to hold on or let go. Sometimes love asks us to keep fighting for the thread. Sometimes love asks us to protect ourselves by loosening our grip. I don’t always get it right, but what I do know is this: I will never willingly erase the people who have shaped my life, and I will never stop believing that love is worth holding whenever it can be.

When I trace this thread — from my childhood peacemaking, to the loyalty of that sixth-grade decision, to the friendships I worked to preserve, to the love I continue to fight for — I see it clearly: I am a connector. Not everyone will match the energy I bring to relationships. Not everyone will understand why I hold on so tightly. But this is who I am. This is my design.

The world needs connectors — people who won’t give up on relationships, who fight to preserve belonging, who keep showing up even when it would be easier to walk away. That has always been my thread, sometimes fragile, sometimes unbreakable. And I know now: it is not a flaw. It is a gift. It is the way I choose to live, and the way I always will.

Because in the end, it is the threads we refuse to let go of that shape the fabric of our lives.