Burning Beneath

I don’t know what to write.

I just feel the need to write.

For the first time in my life, my mind feels… empty.

Not spiraling.

Not racing through questions, directions, or fears.

Not stressing about every possible outcome.

I’m sitting on my couch, not thinking, just being.

And strangely, instead of panic, there’s boredom.

I think this is good.

Maybe this is what it feels like when the mind finally rests.

When the past is accepted.

When the present is no longer something to escape.

When the future isn’t being chased as a lifeline.

I’ve spent most of my life living through hope.

Hope was my future point, something to aim for so I could survive what I was living or what I had lived.

Hope kept me going, but it was also a way out.

A way to not stay here.

And now… I don’t need that kind of hope anymore.

That’s why I got my tattoo, so hope could rest on my body instead of pulling me forward.

Not because I stopped being hopeful. I never will.

Hope is part of my nature. It’s my being.

But its shape has changed.

Now, I’m not running toward the future to avoid the present.

I’m here.

I know where I am.

I know who I am.

And I’m okay with this moment.

I still have anxiety.

I still carry stress.

Healing is not finished, and it never will be.

My journey isn’t about arriving; it’s about enriching my soul, deepening my values, and continuing to choose goodness, positivity, and compassion.

That work doesn’t end.

One thing I keep reflecting on is fear, how much of it lived inside me.

There are still traces of it, and maybe you have them too.

That feeling when you go to the bathroom, realize you forgot your phone, and rush back to grab it, just so you don’t have to sit alone for a minute.

The constant scrolling.

The device that feels glued to our hands, like an extension of our bodies.

When I honestly asked myself why, the answer hit hard:

I was scared of being alone with my thoughts.

Not because they were dangerous, but because they were loud.

Chaotic.

Colliding.

Too much.

My phone wasn’t the enemy.

It was a coping tool.

A pause button.

A way to regulate pain when I wasn’t ready to face everything inside my head.

I don’t judge that anymore.

I still use distraction when I need it, because sometimes the soul needs gentleness before strength.

And today, today my mind is quiet.

That’s rare for me.

And I’m deeply grateful.

Even if this calm doesn’t last, I will cherish this moment.

I’ve touched it.

I know it’s possible.

And I’ll keep walking my path, one quiet breath at a time.