It took me a few days to get here. Not physically…though my body has been moving through its own rhythms and rituals, but here… the inside place. The space where I can sit, listen, and simply be. Calmly. Quietly. Contentedly

And how to lovingly find your way back home… You know that feeling when you look in the mirror and think, “Where did I go?” You’re going through the motions… doing the things… maybe even checking all the “right” boxes, yet something feels off. Muted. Fuzzy. Fucked up…Like you’re living just a few inches to the left of your own life.

We’ve mastered the art of pretending everything’s fine while we’re dying inside. We’ve built elaborate systems to avoid looking at the scared parts of ourselves. We’ve gotten so good at hiding from our own fear that we’ve forgotten it’s even there.

You know the ones … your art teacher telling you what “real” art looks like, your boss’s voice dictating how you should handle every situation, your mother’s opinions about literally everything. It’s like having a bunch of uninvited houseguests who never leave and keep rearranging your mental furniture.