In this moment, I’m not thriving.
I’m trying not to disappear.
I’m learning how to make peace with being a little quieter, a little slower, a little more unsure than I used to be.

Once, I thought my worth was in what I gave—how much I could carry, how much I could hold, how many fires I could put out without flinching.
I was everyone’s go-to.
Reliable. Capable. Strong.
I said yes until I forgot what no felt like in my own mouth.

That story used to save me.
The one where I was always fine. Always in control. Always holding it together.
But it was a lie with good posture.
And eventually, it started to crack.

There were no dramatic breakdowns.
Just small things falling apart: forgetting to eat, losing sleep, feeling invisible in rooms where I was supposed to feel needed.
The applause kept coming. The emptiness stayed.

So, I started telling the truth.
Quietly, at first.
I’m tired.
I need space.
I can’t keep doing this.

Burnout didn’t come from being busy.
It came from believing I had to earn every breath I took.
From chasing success that kept moving the finish line.
From failing in ways no one saw and succeeding in ways that didn’t save me.

Disillusionment hit harder than the exhaustion.
Because the life I worked for didn’t feel like the life I wanted.
Because the image I built started to feel like a stranger wearing my name.

So, I did the only thing I knew to do.
I set boundaries—not bold declarations,
just quiet lines drawn with shaking hands.

Not because I’d mastered self-love,
but because I was bleeding and needed something to hold me together.
Because boundaries are bandages,
not declarations of strength.
They’re what you reach for when the fall has already happened,
when your knees are scraped and you don’t want to make it worse by standing too fast.

And even now, I still resist them.
Still catch myself reaching back across the line I drew,
wanting to explain, soften, apologize.
Still feel that tug—the old need to prove I’m good by how much I give.
Still flinch at silence that follows a “no.”
Still mourn the version of me who would have said yes just to be amenable.

Some days I hold the boundary and grieve it in the same breath.
Some days I wonder if I’m being selfish,
if I’m pushing people away,
if I’m mistaking isolation for healing.
The guilt doesn’t leave easily.
It lingers, sits in the room with me,
asks if I’m sure I need this much space.

And I don’t always have an answer.
But I hold the line anyway.
Because even with the ache—
even with the doubt—
this ache is cleaner than the exhaustion that came before.
This silence is softer than the noise of pretending.

In this process I lost a few things:
The version of me that always smiled.
The relationships that only worked when I said yes.
The comfort of being admired for how well I could abandon myself.

But I gained something else.
Stillness.
Breath.
A softer kind of strength.

Right now, what’s saving my life is the boundary I used to feel guilty for.
The silence I used to rush to fill.
The decision to stop being everything for everyone.

It’s not easy.
Sometimes I miss the story I used to live in—the one where I was always needed, always clapped for, always “on.”
Sometimes I wonder if the quiet means I’ve disappeared.
If choosing peace looks too much like giving up.

But again, I think—
maybe—
this is what healing looks like, before it’s beautiful.
Before it’s whole.

This is what the lesson looks like,
Before it’s fully learned.
The journey before the destination.
Grace in disguise.

And lately, in the space I’ve carved out,
I’m noticing things.
The way the morning light moves across the wall.
The sound of the kettle just before it whistles.
The softness of socks right out of the dryer.
Unrushed conversations.
The full exhale that follows a boundary kept.

I used to strive for extraordinary.
Now I’m learning to sit with enough.
And in enough, there is so much more than I ever expected.

What’s saving my life right now
is the quiet rhythm of the mundane—
the things I used to race past
on my way to being impressive.

I’m not performing anymore.
So I can finally feel it.

The meaning.
The beauty.
The simple, saving grace
of this moment,
and the next,
and the next.