From the Quiet Corners of My Soul
- Karen Di Gloria
- Jul 13
- 5 min read
Updated: Jul 15
I was watching something on TV, nothing particularly deep or spiritual, just background noise while my mind wandered. And then this image came to me—out of nowhere. A little girl running up to me with her dad, hugging me tightly, calling me an angel.
I actually teared up.
Because that’s not the first time I’ve been called that. It’s happened before. People have said it in passing, friends, strangers, and once, a medium said she saw wings on me. She was walking behind me and said she didn’t want to step on them. At the time, I didn’t know what to do with those words. Angel? Me? I almost laughed it off.
But today, that image of the little girl hit differently. Maybe because I’ve been speaking more to God lately. More to my guides. More to my soul. And for once, I’m hearing answers.
I’ve spent so much time in the past feeling like I failed—especially when it came to love. Relationship after relationship, each with its own heartbreak, and each man carrying a heaviness I couldn’t fix. Addictions, trauma, deep wounds. They numbed themselves in ways I couldn’t reach. And it hurt. Not just the loss, but the lies. The hiding. The fact that they couldn’t tell me the truth about what they were battling.
Most of them were older than me. Grown men. My ex-husband was ten years older—never married before, no kids. The man I was once engaged to—same story, no children, never married. Then there was a younger one with two sons but estranged from them because of his past with drugs and crime. Different from the others in that way, but still deeply significant. Never married either, and eager to get engaged in less than a year—even with narcissistic tendencies that showed up more than I wanted to admit.
All of them had lived a life, but hadn’t truly stepped into intimacy. Not with me, not with themselves.
So I internalized that. Thought maybe I was the one not ready. Maybe I was too much. Too emotional. Too deep. Too different. Maybe my own body knew what I wasn’t ready to admit: that I couldn’t give all of myself—especially sexually—to a man who wouldn’t hold that sacred. I didn’t want my body to become just another place they went to escape.
But damn, I’ve felt lonely in that knowing. And for a long time, unloved. Because they all seemed to want me around when they got their life together. When they were more "mature." When they could finally see themselves as husbands. I became the future they wanted, but never the present they could handle.
And now, I’m starting to see it differently. Not like some cliché lesson, but just . . . clarity. Like my soul is finally whispering back, "You weren’t meant to be their escape. You were the mirror. You were the reminder of what was possible. You showed up as something they didn’t know how to hold."
That’s why they called me angelic.
Not because I’m perfect. God knows I’ve got my own mess. But because something in me—some softness, some strength, some light—disrupted their numbness. And they weren’t ready. Not because I wasn’t lovable, but because they hadn’t chosen to love themselves yet.
It doesn’t mean I didn’t ache. I still ache. But now I see I was never failing—I was just offering something sacred to people who couldn’t yet receive it.
And now, I want something different. I want a love that meets me. That reveres me. That feels like breath, like truth, like softness and fire in the same moment. A divine partner. Not perfect—but awake. Honest. Sacred.
I think I’m ready. Not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I’m no longer pretending I need to shrink, or fix, or wait for someone else’s healing to catch up.
I’m here. My soul is loud again. And I’m finally listening.
And then, at the end of that show—right as all of this stirred inside me—“Say Something” by A Great Big World came on.
I froze.
Because that song . . . it’s everything I couldn’t say in those past relationships. Everything I tried to offer. Everything I waited for and never received.
“Say something, I’m giving up on you.”
How many times did I silently whisper that? Not always with words, but with my body, my presence, my hope. With the way I showed up, stayed soft, held space—until there was nothing left but silence and ache.
“I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.”
That line still stings. Because it’s the truth. I couldn’t. No matter how much love I poured in, I couldn’t reach them through their numbness. I couldn’t make them choose themselves. And I couldn’t keep abandoning me in the process.
But this time, hearing it, something shifted. I didn’t hear it as failure.
I heard it as release.
Like my soul was saying, you did what you could. And now, you don’t have to hold their silence anymore. You get to hold yourself. You get to be held by someone who won’t run.
And if you’re out there, if you’re reading this, this is for you—
A Letter to My Divine Soul Partner
I don’t know your face yet. I don’t know your name. But I know your soul. I feel you when the silence is thick and warm and full of possibility.
I’ve been preparing for you in ways I didn’t always understand. In heartbreak. In loneliness. In sacred no’s and hard endings. In the moments I chose my own heart over the chaos of another’s.
I used to think I had to earn love by being everything—healer, nurturer, fixer, muse. But I don’t want that with you. I want truth. I want safety. I want presence.
I want the kind of love that doesn’t run from the dark, but holds it tenderly with the light. The kind that prays together—not out of desperation, but out of devotion. The kind that worships each other not as gods, but as living reflections of God.
I won’t ask you to be perfect. I only ask you to be real. To come with your whole heart, even if it’s still healing. I’ll meet you there. Bare, flawed, holy. Ready.
And when you show up—I’ll know.
Until then, I’m here. Preparing not by waiting, but by becoming.
If any part of this touched something inside you, I’d love to know.
Leave a comment, share it with someone who might need it, or simply tap the heart if you're reading this on a platform that allows it.
If this moved you, consider subscribing to Divine Soul Letters to receive soul nourishment straight to your inbox.
Just click the button below — your presence here truly means something real.
Softly and soulfully,
Karen Di Gloria🌹
Comments