Welcome back, dear friends, to Infinite Threads: Conversations on Love, Connection, and Compassion.
As always, I’m your host Bob, and today… well, today’s different.
This wasn’t what I planned. I had a different idea lined up for Episode 104—something more lighthearted, something that leaves you walking into your day with a smile. But love… real love… doesn’t always wear a smile. Sometimes, it limps in, bruised and breathless, carrying a shattered mirror and asking, “Will you still hold me now?”
This is one of those episodes.
I had a fight this week.
Not a disagreement. Not a tension-filled exchange. A full-blown, red-faced, weeping, yelling, soul-tearing fight with someone I’ve known most of my life—a childhood friend who also happens to be a co-worker.
We had a falling out a few years back and only recently began thawing the ice between us. I thought we were on our way to healing. I thought the thread was holding.
And then—snap.
He thought I had deliberately locked him out of work. I hadn’t. I made a mistake when programming the security doors. Instead of 7 p.m., I set them to lock at 5 p.m. Human error. But in his eyes, it was targeted. Punishment. Betrayal.
He came at me hard—hurt, angry, accusatory. And I didn’t respond with grace.
I wish I had. I wish I could tell you I was calm, centered, loving.
But I wasn’t.
I snapped too. Hard. I threw back every ounce of energy he gave me—every hurt, every insult, every wounded feeling I’d buried over the years.
I cursed. I shouted. I sobbed.
We both did.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t holy. It was human.
I’ve said before that trauma lives in the thread of connection—quietly tightening until something small snaps it wide open.
That’s exactly what happened.
This wasn’t about a door. It wasn’t about access codes. It was about all the unresolved hurt beneath years of silence. The disappointment of a friendship that had drifted into shadow. The grief of two boys who had grown up alongside one another but had never really healed alongside each other.
We pretend old wounds don’t hurt if we just don’t talk about them. But silence doesn’t equal peace. It just masks the noise until the volume explodes.
That’s what this moment was—an eruption of everything unsaid.
This is where I need to be honest with you—again.
I didn’t live up to the ideals I talk about here.
I wasn’t the best version of myself. I wasn’t the wise voice. I wasn’t the one showing restraint. I was someone cracked open by the heat of an old, familiar fire—and for a few terrible minutes, I let it consume me.
But I also want to tell you this: That moment didn’t end in hate.
It ended in humility.
After the storm passed, he came back. My friend—let’s call him J.—stood in the ashes of what we’d just burned and said, “I’m sorry.”
Not defensively. Not conditionally.
And then, I apologized too. Not because I was obligated, but because it was true. Because I missed him. Because even after everything… I still cared.
We don’t talk enough about the beauty of repair.
In a culture that often cancels or ghosts, we forget that the deepest love isn’t found in never messing up. It’s in what happens after the mess.
Repair is a skill. A sacred one.
Saying “I’m sorry” doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’ve chosen to care more about connection than being right.
And forgiveness? It’s not weakness. It’s spiritual maturity.
It says: “I see your worst moment… and I still choose to stay connected.”
It’s easy to love when everything’s smooth.
But love tested—love that rebuilds the bridge even after it’s been set on fire—that’s where the power lies.
I know some of you listening have had your own version of this. Maybe it was a fight. A breakdown. A moment where you lashed out, or shut down, or pushed someone away out of fear.
Maybe you’re still sitting with shame from that moment.
Let me tell you something, as someone who just went through it: Shame is a liar.
Shame says, “You’re not who you say you are.”
But growth says, “You’re still becoming.”
And love—unconditional love—says, “I still see you. Even now.”
We don’t lose our worth in a moment of failure. We reveal our worth in what we do after.
There’s a reason I talk so much about unconditional love and the healing presence it brings. It’s because in moments like these—when you feel like you’ve undone everything—you need to believe that love isn’t gone. It’s waiting.
Love is always waiting.
But it doesn’t knock on the door with confetti and warm cookies.
Sometimes it knocks with calloused hands, asking, “Will you let me back in after what just happened?”
Say yes.
Because that moment—that yes—can change everything.
I’ve started asking myself a question in nearly everything I do now:
“Is this coming from a place of love?”
Not just kindness. Not just politeness. Love.
If the answer is yes—even if I’m being firm, even if I’m holding a boundary—then I know I’m aligned with my values.
If the answer is no—if I’m acting out of fear, resentment, ego—then it’s time to pause. Time to reevaluate.
This simple question has saved me from escalating more fights than I can count. It’s helped me apologize sooner, speak more clearly, and love more deeply.
Try it.
Ask yourself before the text, before the meeting, before the decision:
Is this coming from a place of love?
It will change the way you live.
Maybe it was yesterday. Maybe it was ten years ago.
You yelled. Or ran away. Or ghosted. Or shut down. Or hurt someone who trusted you. Or hurt yourself by pretending you didn’t care.
You’re not beyond love.
You’re not beyond repair.
The thread of compassion doesn’t dissolve when it’s strained. It waits to be retied.
So if you can, take a breath… and reach out.
Apologize. Forgive. Ask to talk. Even if it’s messy.
Especially if it’s messy.
Sometimes the most sacred love is found in the rebuilding.
Thank you for walking this vulnerable path with me today.
If this episode speaks to you—share it. With someone you’ve hurt. Or someone who’s hurt you. Or just someone who needs a reminder that even broken people can love beautifully.
As always, I’ll see you in the next one.
Until then… choose love.
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