Friends to Lovers; Patience Is A Virtue

I’ve always been the kind of woman who thinks it, wants it, needs it — and gets it.

Call it determination.

Call it perseverance.

Call it manifestation at its finest.

The Universe also isn’t shy to pile drive a weighted “FUCK YOU” when you misuse that power — kicking you so far up your ass, reminding you what happens when you mishandle your fortunes.

And lately, my lessons have circled around one word I used to gag on: patience.

At forty-something, it’s not easy to rewire a brain that’s been firing off the same patterns for decades. I’m loud, blunt, brash, unapologetic — and I don’t give a single fuck if someone thinks I should be softer.

Beauty of this caliber is intense. But if not properly maintained, she is chaotic.

The real flex, though? Teaching myself to slow down.

To stop grabbing at every man, every opportunity, every shiny thing like it’s my last meal. To observe instead. Watch. Listen. And wait to see if someone’s actions actually line up with their words.

Which is why spending time with a new/old friend threw me.

We’ll call him “HG”…

Again, he’s not new to me, but he’s new to this version of me. We grew up orbiting the same people but never collided until this year. One night we sat on my couch, smoked joint after joint, and laughed so hard my ribs hurt. I hadn’t laughed like that in years — the kind of laughter that steals your breath and makes you ugly-cry at the same time.

Somewhere between belly laughs and joints passed back and forth, the energy shifted.

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When he finally leaned in and kissed me, it wasn’t rushed or sloppy. It was deliberate — the kind of kiss that starts slow, testing the waters, then deepens like he already knew the answer. His mouth tasted faintly of weed and cigerettes, his hand resting heavy on my thigh like an anchor. It caught me off guard in the best way, enough that I actually stopped mid-make-out just to tell him what a damn good kisser he was.

And I wasn’t wrong.

That kiss wasn’t just lips brushing together; it was a full-body exhale. It was the kind of kiss that makes you forget the years that passed between knowing of someone and finally getting to know them.

When things moved past kissing, it wasn’t just sex it was an unrushed, deliberate exploration. The kind of intimacy that makes you hyper-aware of every place his hands touched and every place they hadn’t yet.

He wasn’t pressing to get off; he was studying me. Watching my face. Waiting for my breath to hitch before he moved further, like he was memorizing a roadmap only my body could draw.

There was confidence in the way he touched me — not cocky, not performative, just sure. Like he knew pleasure wasn’t about speed or tricks, but about intention.

And when I say I melted under his tongue, I don’t mean just physically. It was the way he lingered, the way he made sure I stayed there. The way he didn’t stop until he knew I had nothing left to give but a laugh and a moan tangled together.

He confidently told me he “brought my A-game”, and I can confidently agree the man knows what he is doing. And as if the Universe wanted to keep me humble, I experienced the worst hot-flash I’ve had to date that very night — it still wasn’t as embarrassing as it should have been.

For months we talked daily, saw each other when we could, and it was great. Then came the text — one of those messages that reads fine when you write it, but lands sideways when you read it. Tone lost. Meaning warped. Instead of picking up the phone, we let silence do the talking.

Thirty days slipped by.

Old me would’ve called that wasted time. This me? I realized it was the Universe forcing me to pause. To sit with myself. To figure out if I was craving him or just craving constant validation.

Manifesting at its finest again — but this time, taming the power instead of letting it run me.

Breathe… patience.

HG and I had a phone conversation recently, one we should’ve had months ago to clear up that stupid misinterpreted text. And not that either of us were mad at one another, it was just a “okay, maybe this is it??” type of thing. “This is where we end it??” Yet neither one of us reached out to the other until I needed some clarity on a completely separate subject.

In any case, something came to light when I said to him…

“I wasn’t sure you liked me like that.”

Then came the question that cut deeper than I expected.

HG responded immediately with—“Do you have sex with men who don’t like you?”

“Yea, my ex-husband…” No hesitation, no questions asked —

Send.

There was no lag before the three dots appeared at the bottom left of our text box. Instantly I thought - I fucked up… He’s going to realize I’m damaged goods. The insecurities I face are minimal, but they are still there. It’s troubling how much I still can’t differentiate between someone liking me or someone just using me.

Fucked up, I know.

I don’t know or can necessarily understand if or when someone is being genuine unless actions and words match. I’ve been conditioned to believe every lie that poured out of my ex’s mouth for years. His actions never matched his words, or his words never matched his actions.

I wasn’t questioning HG, I just wanted more of him. His presence, his laughs, his exuding calmness that makes me feel more at ease than I’ve ever felt. But I also want more of him because he wants more of me. I didn’t want it to feel forced, and it wasn’t.

We are both career driven, focused individuals with a passion for family and peace. We align on many levels, yet- sometimes you meet people at the right time and things either work out because you want them to, and you do it together. Or they don’t, and you simply go on your own way.

Because at this age, there is no wasting time. I give my time and energy to those I WANT to give it to. Those I WANT to have in my life. The people I WANT to get to know.

I know he values the same.

HG is methodical. Careful. At first, I thought it was distance or disinterest.

Maybe he’s been hurt before and is protecting himself.

Maybe he’s being deliberate because he’s not looking for a fling — he’s looking for a life companion.

Maybe slow isn’t rejection, it’s INTENTION.

Someone to trust wholeheartedly.

To fall in lust — and in love — unconditionally.

To be goofy with daily, take spontaneous vacations with— long weekends away focusing only on each other. And making EVERY. SINGLE. SUNDAY. their own.

Maybe slowing down is the only way to make sure those things are real.

It’s not about him pulling away from me. It’s about him making sure he’s moving toward something worth holding on to. And vice-versa.

Which means my lesson is simple — but not easy:

Patience isn’t punishment.

It’s proof.

It’s proof that men can move with care.

Proof that foundations take time to build.

Proof that the right things — the lasting things — are always worth the wait.

For a woman who’s always wanted everything now, waiting has always felt like torture.

But maybe patience isn’t suffering — maybe it’s the proof that some people, some loves, are worth every second it takes to build them.

Until next time…