A Shift Back To Self

Something has shifted inside of me.

I’ve noticed it in the quietest way.

I haven’t felt the need to pour my soul onto the page lately. The depth, the ache, the meaning that used to demand expression… it’s not sitting at the surface the same way. And I can see that reflected in my recent writing and the videos I’ve been sharing.

A few days ago, I wrote about feeling lighter.

A shift in my spirit.

My energy.

My life force.

And it’s true.

But it’s not just showing up in what I’m sharing.

It’s showing up in how I’m living.

After a long winter of hibernation and select social contact, I’ve been out in the world again. Reconnecting with friends I haven’t seen in months. Meeting new people. Feeling the early sparks of new friendships.

I’ve been outside, working on my deck. Dumping soil. Letting go of planters I don’t need anymore. Clearing space for something new. Something better.

I started a little crochet TikTok account and shared a couple videos. They got more views and comments than I expected. That felt fun and light. It felt like an introduction to a new community.

But the moment that stood out the most was simple.

The other night, I picked up a book and read until I fell asleep.

I used to do that every night. Just read. For the joy of it. I haven’t done that in over a year.

This past year, I wrote instead. I processed. I poured everything out. Someone once told me, “You don’t need to consume stories right now—you’re writing your own.”

They were right.

And now… I don’t need to write in that same way anymore.

At least not right now.

And that’s okay.

All of this feels like a transition. Like I’ve moved from processing and healing and integrating… into living again.

It feels a little strange.

Writing carried me through the hardest season of my life. It held me together. Gave me witness and expression in the same breath. And now I don’t need it like I did.

There’s a small part of me that thinks I should write certain things. That I should keep producing, keep sharing in a way that meets expectations.

But I don’t actually know what anyone wants from me. And guessing never leads anywhere good. It doesn’t serve me.

So instead, I’m thinking about writing… and then choosing to live.

Choosing things that feel like me.

A version of me that is both who I’ve always been… and who I’ve created through everything I’ve lived through.

And right now, that looks like this:

I’m reading Dungeon Crawler Carl.

Not my usual genre.

Something completely different.

And I like it.

So I think I’ll just keep reading… until I fall asleep.