Room Notes
Lately in my room, I've been rearranging things. New sheets. Moved the mirror to catch better light. I opened a window I didn't know was painted shut.
But she's still here. She doesn't knock, she's never had to, she's got her own key, made a copy of it years ago when I wasn't paying attention, back when I thought letting her stay was the same thing as being honest about my flaws.
She's curled up in the corner she claims as hers, watching me repaint around her like she's furniture I forgot to get rid of.
I used to think we were the same person. That's the part nobody tells you about self-sabotage, it doesn't feel like an enemy, it feels like a habit wearing your own face. It knows which drawer you cry in. It knows the excuse you'll reach for before you do. For a long time I let that closeness pass for comfort.
But this room is getting smaller. Or maybe I'm just finally the size I was supposed to be, and there's no longer space for both of us to stretch out in it. Something's got to move. And for once, I don't think it's going to be me.
Maybe that's the real transformation nobody warns you about, not some big dramatic exit, just quietly deciding you don't owe your old habits a room anymore. I haven't packed her bags yet. But I've started leaving the door open longer than I used to, letting the air move through, letting her feel how much colder it's getting in here for her.
One of these mornings, I'm going to wake up and the corner's just going to be empty. And I don't think I'll miss her as much as I think I will.
Bye for now.
Working on it,
Me <3
The Things We Do, Do Things To Us
I used to think staying still was the safe choice. Now I think it was just the slowest way of losing time.
Every decision I didn't make was still a decision. Every chance I let pass because the timing "wasn't right," that was a choice too, just one dressed up as patience. I told myself I was being careful. Really, I was just watching my own life from a comfortable distance, waiting for permission I was never going to get.
Here's what I know now: nothing changes by accident. Not the good things, not the growth, not the version of me I actually want to be. It changes because I moved, because I said yes to the thing that scared me, or left the thing that was safe but small, or chased the feeling instead of the guarantee. Every time I've taken a chance on a person, a plan, a version of myself I hadn't proven yet, it did something to me. It built something. Even the chances that didn't work out taught my hands what reaching feels like.
Stagnant doesn't protect you. It just delays the moment you have to decide anyway. And happiness was never going to knock on the door of a life I wasn't willing to move around in.
So I'm done waiting for the "right time," it's a myth designed to keep good people comfortable and unchanged. I'd rather take the chance and get it wrong than stay still and call it wisdom. The things I do now, I want them to do something to me. I want to look back and see the marks of every leap, not the smooth, untouched surface of a life I never risked.
Still here, taking the leap, chasing it anyway.
I'm scared guys!
You Cant Talk Butterfly with Caterpillars
Not everyone is ready for who you've become
At some point, you stop explaining yourself twice. Once for the room, and once more for the people still catching up to it.
It's not that everyone around you got worse, or that you got better than them. It's that you're not speaking from the same place anymore, and no amount of translating closes that gap. You'll say something that feels obvious now, something you earned through change nobody watched happen in real time, and you'll watch it land on someone like a foreign language. Not because they're slow. Because they're still standing where you used to stand, and you can't hand someone three years of growth just to make one conversation make sense.
That's the part that tricks a lot of people into guilt. Like you owe everyone a translation. Like growth doesn't count unless you can shrink it small enough for people to hold without having to change themselves. So you simplify the flight. You talk caterpillar even after you've already left the cocoon, just so nobody feels behind.
You don't have to keep doing that.
You can't talk butterfly with caterpillars, not because you're above them, but because the words don't exist yet where they're standing. Flight isn't something you can explain to something that hasn't broken its shell. It has to be lived, the same way yours had to be. Forcing the conversation only costs you the very transformation you worked for.
So when a conversation starts feeling one-sided, don't take it personally. Notice the stage instead. Some people are caterpillars forever, comfortable there, never asking for more. Some are mid-change, just slower, and it's worth remembering nobody rushed you either. And some, the honest ones, will eventually ask what you know now, not because you offered it, but because they're finally ready to hear it.
You don't owe anyone a translation they're not ready for. Keep flying. Let the ones who are ready catch up in their own time.
BRB, Chasing it anyway.