There’s a weird pressure to always be on the move. New goal. New project. New version of yourself to show off.
But lately, I’ve stopped pretending I know what’s next. I don’t. And that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with pausing between pages. Not everything has to be figured out to be worth living.
So here I am, doing small things. Dishes. Reading. Stretching. Listening. Still becoming, just not loudly.
Let them think I’m doing nothing. I’m building the part of my life I can’t explain yet.
