The Luxury of Not Rushing Myself

Day 125 – March 28, 2026

I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to get somewhere faster.

Not always physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. Existentially. Like if I could just think hard enough, heal fast enough, explain myself clearly enough, work enough, become enough, then maybe I could outrun the part where being a person is weird, painful, nonlinear, humiliating, gorgeous, and significantly more improvisational than advertised.

Cute. It does not work.

And I think one of the quieter things changing in me lately is I’m less interested in rushing myself toward some imaginary version of “done.”

Done healing. Done grieving. Done figuring it out. Done being affected. Done being angry. Done being complicated.

There is no done. There is only honest.

And honest, for me, right now, looks like me still becoming. Still metabolizing. Still living inside a body and mind that know too much now. Still making a life anyway. Still noticing where the tenderness is. Still noticing where the fury is. Still wanting beautiful things. Still unwilling to flatten my interior world just because the culture loves a tidy redemption arc and gets nervous around women who remain multilayered for too long.

That’s their problem.

I am not a time lapse video. I am not a lesson neatly packaged for consumption.

I am a person. Which means sometimes growth looks like motion and sometimes it looks like restraint. Sometimes it looks like action and sometimes it looks like choosing not to force an answer just because silence makes other people itchy.

That was the mood today. A kind of softer authority.

Not “I have it all figured out.” More like, “I do not need to drag myself by the throat into someone else’s timeline for recovery, femininity, productivity, or peace.”

That feels luxurious honestly.

The luxury of not rushing. The luxury of not turning every quiet season into a deficiency. The luxury of letting the slower truths surface in their own time instead of interrogating them under fluorescent emotional lighting like they owe me immediate clarity.

I’ve done enough of that.

Some things become visible only when you stop clawing at them.

Roger, of course, does not rush himself under any circumstances unless a treat is involved, in which case he becomes a four-legged venture capitalist with no ethics and a fully accelerated business model.

Otherwise? Leisure king.

There is something deeply persuasive about his confidence in timing. If he is tired, he rests. If he is hungry, he campaigns. If the sun moves three inches across the floor, he relocates like a wealthy retiree with no meetings and a blood feud against stress.

And maybe that’s the shift.

Less urgency. More precision. Less panic about where I “should” be by now. More curiosity about where I actually am.

That is a much better use of my energy.

Because the truth is, I am still here. Still real. Still funny. Still harder to forget than to understand at first glance. Still carrying things. Still laying some of them down. Still learning the exact difference between forward motion and self abandonment.

That difference matters.

And I am finally learning not to rush past myself just because the world finds women easiest to admire when we are either breaking beautifully or “healed” on schedule.

No thank you. I’d rather be real.

Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.

And the luxury of not rushing myself into a version of peace that does not actually fit.