They say if an eagle ever sees another bird flying at the same altitude, it must be another eagle.

I’ve been sitting with that thought lately, turning it over like a smooth stone in my hand. Feeling its weight. Its truth. Eagles aren’t trying to prove anything. They simply rise because they were made to. They lift with the current, glide with grace, and climb into places most birds never even attempt. Built for the wind. Wired for heights.

Maybe that’s how it is with people, too.

There comes a time in life, sometimes after heartbreak, sometimes after a long season of just holding on, when you begin to see things more clearly. Not through the lens of pride, but through perspective. The crowd thins. The air changes. Your heart shifts. The things you once clung to feel heavier than they used to. And some of the voices you used to trust begin to sound unfamiliar.

You begin to notice who’s still beside you. Who’s climbing, not because it’s easy, but because they’re drawn to the light. You start to realize that not everyone is meant to fly at your altitude. Not everyone is built to withstand the wind you’ve battled. And that’s not a judgment. It’s a quiet understanding. A release.

But every so often, you may catch yourself looking around and wondering why the company feels unfamiliar. Why the conversations feel small. Why your soul feels restless. And if you find yourself flying with pigeons, flapping in circles, pecking at crumbs, weighed down by the noise and rush of everything ordinary, it might be time to reevaluate your flight pattern.

There’s a quiet ache that comes with type of growth. The kind no one prepares you for. It’s the loneliness that healing brings. The discomfort of outgrowing places and people that once felt like home. You begin to crave more than surface talk. You hunger for substance. For stillness. For people who see the world with the same wide, watchful eyes and carry the same weight of having been through something and survived it with softness still intact.

And when you do find someone flying beside you, steady in the wind, heart anchored in higher things, you know you’ve found rare company. Someone who doesn’t just understand your altitude, but was made for it, too.

Eagles don’t rise to escape. They rise because they are drawn higher. They follow the pull of purpose. They don’t chase the crowd. They trust the current. And maybe that’s the invitation for us, too. Maybe the restlessness you feel, the longing for something more, the way old rhythms no longer fit, is not failure. Maybe it’s calling. Maybe it’s transformation unfolding in slow, sacred ways.

So if you’re flying alone for a season, don’t lose heart. You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not forgotten.

You’re rising.

And one day, without forcing it or needing it too soon, you’ll glance to your left and see another soul soaring beside you. Someone who’s been through the winds, too. Someone who didn’t settle. Someone who rose.

Not everyone can fly at this height. But the ones who can will find you.

And that’s no small thing.