Keys
to
my
room

​

Some people live in chapters. I live in layers.

There’s the version of me that shows up to work—licensed, composed, professionally polite. The one who knows how to lead a shift, close a sale, and keep the chaos from spilling into the dining room. That layer is practiced. It knows how to smile through exhaustion and make guests feel seen, even when I feel invisible.

Then there’s the writer. The one who stays up too late sculpting sentences that feel like skin. Who rewrites scenes not because they’re wrong, but because they’re too honest. That layer is raw. It doesn’t clock out. It carries emotional residue from every character, every journal entry, every line I almost deleted.

There’s the dreamer—the one who imagines a life built on quiet rebellion and soft power. Who wants a home that feels like a sanctuary, a career that doesn’t require emotional acrobatics, and a blog that whispers truth instead of shouting advice. That layer is tender. It’s often buried beneath the logistics of survival.

And then there’s the one no one sees. The version that doubts, that overthinks, that wonders if any of this matters. That layer doesn’t wear a name tag. It doesn’t get applause. But it’s there, shaping every decision, every hesitation, every rewrite.

Living in layer means holding all of these versions at once. It means being the manager and the muse, the caretaker and the creator, the one who shows up and the one who quietly falls apart. It’s not about balance. It’s about permission—to be complex, to be contradictory, to be real.

Some days, one layer leads. Other days, they overlap. And in the rare moments when they align—when I’m writing something honest, doing work that matters, and feeling like myself—I remember why I keep showing up.

Because living in layer isn’t a flaw. It’s a form of resilience. It’s how I move through the world without losing myself in it.