Wolves. It always comes back to wolves. They are stitched into the fabric of my being, threading themselves through my soul in a way that defies the logic of human language. I find myself comparing my feelings to a wolf—again. This isn’t the first time, nor will it likely be the last. Wolves speak to me, not in the literal sense, but in the quiet, unspoken language of loners who long for connection yet remain tethered to their independence like a leash they don’t want but somehow need.

I am an alpha female waiting for her alpha male—a concept that sounds simultaneously empowering and mildly ridiculous when said aloud. But here I am, hunting for a bond so primal and profound that it feels like it should be etched into the stars. I’ve been searching for so long that some days my own shadow mocks me. The loneliness, that gnawing beast, occasionally overwhelms me, chewing away at my resolve with teeth sharper than I care to admit. On those days, I feel like the wolf abandoned by its pack. Too different, too wild, too… unwelcome. Yet in the same breath, there’s this stubborn whisper, this aggravatingly hopeful voice in my head that insists someone out there will understand me, see me, accept me for who I am. Not just tolerate me, but truly *get* me.

Social media doesn’t help. That swirling vortex of curated lives and filtered smiles? It’s a strange wilderness where I find myself drawn, like a moth to a flame—or perhaps a wolf to a trail of breadcrumbs. The posts, the words—oh, the words!—those syrupy, saccharine things that a girl dreams of hearing from someone who claims her heart. I find myself lingering longer on those posts than I care to admit, imagining the impossible, scrolling until my thumbs protest. It’s absurd and yet, here I am, a wolf trailing after illusions, sniffing for the scent of something real in a forest of pixels and hashtags.

And don’t get me started on my heart. My poor, battered heart—scratched, dented, probably held together with duct tape at this point. I’ve given it away more times than I can count, tossing it into the fray like a Frisbee, only to scramble after it when the recipient drops it. And oh, how I fight. I fight for relationships that demand blood, sweat, and tears—all three, in that exact order—and then proceed to siphon away whatever scraps of emotional energy I have left. It isn’t because I’m a people pleaser; let’s clear that up right now. No, it’s because of that pesky, relentless feeling of loneliness—an ache so sharp it feels like it could carve valleys into my ribs. It fuels my stubbornness, makes me cling to the hope that maybe this time, maybe with this person, I’ll find the connection I crave.

Some days, the loneliness is manageable. Other days, it’s a full-blown beast, snapping at my heels, dragging me down into a pit where minutes stretch into hours and hours feel like eternity. On those days, I don’t want to fight. I want to curl up in my proverbial den, hidden away from the world, wrapped in the arms of someone who *gets* it. Someone who would hold me—not because they feel obligated, but because they *want* to, because the act of holding me brings them comfort too. I want to be their safe haven the way I imagine they would be mine—the person who knows how to cradle my storms and let me cradle theirs.

It isn’t just the loneliness that gnaws at me. It’s the touch hunger, the ache for physical connection, for the grounding weight of another being’s presence. It’s the days when my head screams in chaos and my body yearns for calm, blending into a cacophony of craving that leaves me feeling raw and exposed. I know the term for it—touch hunger—and I’m painfully aware of how much it dictates my longing. I’m also aware of my flaws: too trusting, too forgiving. A walking paradox, really. I know it gets me hurt, and yet I can’t seem to change. It’s who I am, for better or worse.

Lately, though, I’ve been seeing more of those hard days—the ones where hope feels like a cruel joke played by the universe. I’m afraid to hope, to dream of something better, because the weight of wanting and not having threatens to break me in ways I can’t explain. I know there’s an alphabet soup of medical explanations for my struggles, though I couldn’t pinpoint which letters to blame. Perhaps all of them, as they’re all part of me—this messy, chaotic, absurdly human me.

I may never find my pack, and I have to be okay with that. It’s a hard truth, one that cuts deep, but it’s mine to carry. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying, though. On days when I feel strong enough, I’ll keep searching, keep fighting, keep hoping. But on the hard days—the ones that threaten to drown me—I’ll try to let the feelings roll through me, let them pass like a storm rather than locking them away. Because locking them away only builds the fear, the suffocating dread of being left outside, looking in. I feel that fear so often it’s practically a second skin, but I know better than to let it consume me.

So, here I am—an alpha female, a lone wolf, a chaotic jumble of hope, fear, and stubborn resilience. I’ll keep wandering this wilderness, sniffing the air for traces of something real, something true. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll stumble upon someone who speaks the same unspoken language, someone who understands the tether of independence and the ache of longing. Until then, I’ll howl at the moon, laugh at my own absurdity, and press onward. Because that’s what wolves do. That’s what I do. I just wish it wasn’t alone more so today then usual I ache.