You've tried therapy. Meditation. The apps. The supplements. What if the problem was never yours to fix?

You can describe your five-year plan but can't remember what the light looked like this morning. Your life is happening in the ordinary moments you're planning to forget.

You're getting ready for date night and your phone lights up. "Rain check?" And instead of disappointment, you feel... relief. That quiet gladness is telling you something you don't want to hear.

Fourteen unread texts. Six DMs you haven't opened because once you open them, they know you saw. Three "we should catch up soon!" messages from people you haven't actually spoken to in two years.

You want enough money to stop being afraid. But it feels guilty.

You know this specific feeling. Every conversation feels scripted. Every moment feels watched. Even alone, you're performing for an invisible audience that lives in your head.

The numbness isn't permanent. Your feelings didn't disappear—they're just waiting until you have room for them.

The parallel life you didn't choose is still running alongside this one. That's why you feel split.

September light through windows. The smell of cold air on warm skin. You feel more yourself in fall than any other season. This is recognition.

November is threshold—after what finished, before what begins. The pull to disappear is your body, heart, and spirit asking: let something fall.

You still care about them. But every hangout leaves you lonelier than staying home would have.

When you write off rest, you give industry everything and yourself nothing. Your body needs rest first, not after you've earned it. This is how you stay capable.

You're with someone who looks perfect for you. Same values, healthy communication, all the things that matter. And you feel nothing. Not dramatic heartbreak—the quiet nothing of living someone else's life.

You're not broken. You're done. And there's medicine in knowing the difference.

Why sucking at something might mean you're actually present. The radical act of being visibly imperfect when everyone else is pretending to get it.

You sit on your couch. Just sitting. Within seconds your hand reaches for your phone. You pull it back, try again. The discomfort builds. Why can't you do this?

You track who texted first, who paid last, who remembered more. The mental ledger that's supposed to keep things fair is exhausting your capacity for real connection.