There is freedom in releasing the script. In living out the questions rather than answering them.
I am walking unfamiliar ground now. No clear signposts. No polished plan. Just the slow and steady thrum of something shifting deep within me. For so long, I held on tight to the reins, gripping each detail until my knuckles ached with the need to get it right. To look right. To be right. But the shape of my longing has changed. I no longer crave perfection… I crave motion.
What I want no longer waits for me within the well-tended walls of comfort. It lingers just beyond the reach of ease, in that uneasy place where transformation lives. Not the kind that sweeps in gently, but the kind that sits heavy on your chest and asks you to breathe anyway.
I have come to recognize the stretch of discomfort as sacred. There is a certain stillness that isn’t peace, but persistence. It feels like a wound one learns to walk with. A new normal born not from ease, but from decision. A resolve to want more and move accordingly.
I do not know what this becoming will bring. I do not trust every step I take. But I trust the one taking them. And that, perhaps, is the truest form of progress. Not the curated control of an orchestrated life, but the raw, imperfect steps of a person choosing growth over grasping. Choosing movement over mastery.
There is freedom in releasing the script. In living out the questions rather than answering them. I once believed joy was something to be earned after everything was set just right. Now I see it arrives in the middle of the mess, hidden in the act of trying.
So here I am. A little unsteady. Still unsure. But deeply alive.
