When Our Demons Dance

 I read a poem today by Nikita Gill titled "Dance." It begins with a line that just doesn’t leave you easily:

 “I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you.

 I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me.

If our demons cannot dance, neither can we.”

It’s such an intense thing to say, but it feels true in a way that’s hard to explain. You can’t have your yin without your yang. It goes both ways. Maybe that’s what she’s really saying that love isn’t about keeping things neat and pretty. It’s about holding space for the mess, for the moods, for the shadows that come with us.

Sometimes we push people to do things. Not because we want to hurt them, but because we love them. Because we want them to see something they’re missing. But for them, it feels like rejection. They say, “I’m not trying to hurt you,” not realising that’s exactly what it does. It’s strange how love can turn into the very thing that wounds you.

And then comes that quiet realisation. You’ve been giving so much, waiting for it to come back around. But it doesn’t. You stop giving, not because you’ve stopped caring, but because you’re tired of shouting into the void. You realise maybe it was always you doing the reaching. The love never really reached them, or maybe they never caught it.

That’s when it hits you; this is life. You give, you hope, you get disappointed, you stop, and then somehow, you start again. Because even when you know better, there’s still this human craving inside you. To be seen. To be heard. To be loved. To be wanted. To be held. To be cared for. Not to be pushed away in the name of “what’s best.” But what do we do when people are not ready to unravel themselves? 

And then you start things again, perhaps more gently this time. Maybe with less expectation. Maybe just with yourself. One day, something happens: a small thing, a look, a song, a random message, and it feels like life is giving you a little nudge. A reminder to pause for a moment. To breathe. To just be.