Writings on the Wall

Sometimes the heart and the mind go to war. One pulls forward, the other pulls back. What once was true no longer feels true. What once felt solid now feels shaky. And the worst part? You start to wonder if you can even trust yourself anymore.

Because here’s the hard truth—your heart can mislead you. It carries the weight of old wounds. Past experiences, traumas, heartbreaks, abandonment… they all play their part. They whisper in your ear, they cloud your judgment, they shape how you see love, safety, even yourself.

You think you’ve healed. You convince yourself you’ve moved past it. But then—bam—you get triggered. And suddenly you’re right back there, scrambling. It feels like things are unraveling faster than you can hold them together. The more you try to control, the more it all slips away. You’re gasping for air, grasping at anything that will keep you afloat. And in that panic, you try to fix everything. Believing that if you just fix enough, you’ll be okay.

That’s been my story the past few months. I thought I could control it all. I thought if I worked harder, tried harder, gave more, fixed more—it would steady itself. But instead, the harder I clung, the faster it all fell apart.

And then came the crash. The breakdown. That moment where you realize you’ve been spinning in circles, trying to force something that doesn’t want to be forced. That gut-punch of awareness: in trying to control everything, I lost control of myself.

That realization hurts. It humbles you. It strips you down in a way that’s both painful and necessary.

So here I am. Sitting in the middle of the wreckage and choosing something different. Choosing to loosen my grip. To stop trying to control the uncontrollable. Not to give up—because I don’t believe in giving up on people or things that matter—but to shift my focus.

My job isn’t to fix it all. My job isn’t to control the outcome.

My job is to show up.

To support others when I can.

To support myself when I need to.

To be present, not perfect.

This next chapter? I don’t know what it looks like. I don’t know how long it will take or what turns it will hold. And honestly—that scares me. But maybe the point is to stop knowing. Maybe the growth is in letting the unknown be just that—unknown.

So here’s to the rollercoaster. To unclenching my fists, raising my arms, and riding it with a little more trust. Because life doesn’t stay down forever. After the drop always comes the climb.

And maybe this time, instead of drowning in control, I’ll learn how to float.