A Desire For More

Written by: Liz Cerven

Dear Reader,

Somewhere along the way, you learned to put others first. Maybe it was in the way you were raised, the unspoken lessons of love wrapped in sacrifice. Maybe it was the way people praised your selflessness, the way they called you reliable, kind, good. Maybe it was the fear—fear of being too much, fear of being not enough, fear that asking for more would tip the delicate balance of belonging. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, you felt undeserving. Undeserving of ease, of care, of wanting something simply because it called to you. Maybe you told yourself that joy had to be earned, that rest was for those who had done enough, that desire itself was indulgent.

So you learned to quiet your own voice. To tuck your wants into the corners of your mind like folded scraps of paper, notes never passed, words never spoken. You became fluent in the language of everyone else’s needs, listening so intently that, over time, you forgot the sound of your own longings. You forgot how it felt to hunger for something and not immediately second-guess whether you deserved it. You became an expert in anticipating others, in reading between the lines, in making space for everyone but yourself. And maybe, without realizing it, you started believing that your own desires were distractions—frivolous things meant to be set aside for later, for when the timing was right, for when the work of tending to others was finally done.

And yet, in the quiet moments, something stirs. A whisper. A restlessness. A pull toward something more.

At first, you dismiss it. Call it selfish. Call it impractical. You have responsibilities. People who need you. A role to play. But the pull does not leave—it waits. It waits in the sigh you let out when no one is looking, in the way your mind drifts to an old dream when you least expect it. It waits in the ache of a life lived in service to everything but your own becoming. And if you listen closely, if you dare to give it a voice, it does not demand or shame—it simply reminds you that you are still here. That you are not just a function, not just a giver, not just a reflection of who others need you to be. That you, too, belong to yourself.

Losing yourself in others does not make you more whole. It does not make you more worthy. It only makes you lost.

Toni Morrison reminds us, “You are not the work you do; you are the person you are.” You are not measured by how much you accommodate, by how well you contort yourself into what others need. Your worth is not contingent upon how much of yourself you give away. You were never meant to be a vessel for everyone else’s fulfillment while forsaking your own. You are not simply what you produce, what you sacrifice, what you offer. You are not here merely to be useful, to be of service, to be the reliable one who always understands. You are a person, full and whole, even when you do nothing at all.

So, tell me—when was the last time you asked yourself, truly, What do I want?

Not what is reasonable.
Not what is expected.
Not what will make everyone else comfortable.

But what makes you feel alive? What sets your heart alight?

Mary Oliver asks, “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” This is not a question meant for later, for when things settle down, for when everyone else is taken care of. It is meant for now. Because waiting for the right time will only keep you waiting forever. Because a life spent in service to everyone but yourself is not the same as a life well-lived. Because longing does not disappear when it is ignored—it only turns into something quieter, sadder, harder to name. You were not meant to live on the outskirts of your own life, always the observer, never the author. You were not meant to only witness joy—you were meant to experience it.

So, listen. Lean in.

Your longing is not a burden. Your desires are not selfish. The life you crave does not need permission.

You are allowed to want.
You are allowed to dream.
You are allowed to take up space.

And when you finally allow yourself to step toward what calls to you—not out of guilt, not in apology, but in claiming—you will find that coming home to yourself was never about turning your back on others. It was about turning toward the truth of who you are.

It was about remembering that your existence is not an obligation, but an offering.
That joy is not something you must earn, but something you are meant to feel.
That you do not need to justify your desires, only to listen to them.

And when you do, when you finally say yes to yourself, you will not shrink—you will rise.
And the world will not lose you. It will finally see you.

In reverence for all that you are