everyone wants depth until it asks for time

there was a period of my life when i kept saying i wanted depth, but if i’m being honest — and when has honesty ever been subtle — what i really wanted was to feel something immediately. i wanted connection that arrived fast and loud, preferably with sparks, long conversations, and just enough intensity to make me cancel plans and tell my friends, i think this one might be different. i thought depth was something you recognized right away — a look across the table, a charged pause, that familiar tightening in the chest that whispers, this matters. it took me longer than i’d like to admit to realize that depth isn’t something you trip over. it’s something you stay for.

because depth sounds terribly romantic when it’s theoretical. when it’s tossed around over drinks or hinted at in carefully chosen sentences. it looks like vulnerability at exactly the right moment, or a conversation that stretches past midnight and makes you feel as though you’ve uncovered something rare. but depth — real depth — does not rush. it takes its time introducing itself, and that, dear reader, is usually where the trouble begins.

depth asks for continuity. for showing up again. for letting something unfold without prematurely declaring it significant. and we don’t often talk about how profoundly unglamorous that can feel at first.

after all, depth doesn’t arrive with fireworks. it doesn’t always announce itself. sometimes it, dare i say, feels repetitive. sometimes it feels slow. sometimes it feels like very little is happening at all. and in a world that mistakes momentum for meaning, that kind of pace can feel suspicious. we’ve been trained to believe that if it isn’t intense, it must not be important; if it isn’t dramatic, it must be lacking; and if it doesn’t sweep us off our feet, perhaps it isn’t worth staying for.

lately, i’ve been noticing how many people claim they want depth — right up until depth asks them to linger. until it asks for patience. until it asks them to sit inside the ordinary moments where connection actually grows: the check-ins, the routines, the quiet consistency that doesn’t make for a great anecdote, let alone a scandalous one, but does make for a real relationship. this is often when interest mysteriously wanes. when restlessness sets in. when someone suddenly decides they’re “not sure what they’re looking for,” usually just after they’ve been asked to stay put.

and yes — i’ve been there too.

i’ve had to admit, somewhat reluctantly, that there were times i confused urgency with intimacy. that i mistook longing for depth and waiting for devotion. that i believed the ache itself was evidence of importance. it took time to realize that depth doesn’t usually ache — it holds. it doesn’t keep you guessing. it doesn’t rely on distance to remain desirable. it grows through proximity, through repetition, through being seen over time, without the benefit of mystery.

i find myself faithfully brave in choosing to stay when things become simple. to resist the temptation of the next spark when what you have begins to soften into something steadier. to trust that connection doesn’t need to feel electric to be alive, or constantly stimulating to be meaningful. depth, it turns out, is far less interested in how much you feel and far more invested in how long you’re willing to remain.

of course, we don’t live in a culture that exactly rewards this sort of patience. everything around us celebrates immediacy — fast bonds, quick confessions, instant chemistry. we’re encouraged to chase experiences that look cinematic, to collect moments that appear meaningful from the outside. and while there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, it becomes a problem when we start believing that depth must be dramatic to be real.

the connections that truly changed me did not arrive loudly. they unfolded quietly, over time. they were built in moments that would never make the highlight reel — showing up when it would have been easier not to, choosing curiosity over escape, allowing familiarity to deepen instead of mistaking it for boredom.

depth asks for time because time, inconvenient as it may be, reveals the truth. it shows you how someone handles repetition. how they behave when novelty wears off. how they care when there’s nothing left to impress you with. time removes the performance, and what remains is what’s real.

perhaps that’s why depth feels so intimidating. because it asks us to stop chasing the feeling of being moved and start committing to the experience of being known. it asks us to trade urgency for patience, stimulation for steadiness, potential for presence. it asks us, quite plainly, to stay.

i still want depth. i simply understand it differently now. i want the kind that grows roots. the kind that doesn’t rush to prove itself. the kind that unfolds slowly enough that i can actually be present for it. i want connections that don’t disappear the moment things go quiet, or lose interest when there’s no crescendo left to chase.

everyone wants depth. until it asks for time.

and i can’t help but wonder…
is depth truly so rare, or are we simply too impatient to wait for it?

x,
cibelle