There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from living entirely inside your own head.

I’ve realized that I don’t just “do” activities; I use them as anchors. I lose myself in the rhythm of writing, the escape of reading, the discipline of exercise, and even the quiet vanity of haircare and planning outfits. They are the small, controllable rituals that keep me from drifting too far into the “beyond.”

But eventually, the distractions fade, and I am left with the one thing I can’t outrun: overthinking.

I often find myself reflecting on my life, not just the little things that happen each day, but also the “why” behind everything. I think about the places where people used to gather and how often I’m left with my own thoughts. It’s a kind of heavy, echoing solitude. It’s like feeling like a book that everyone glances at but doesn’t really understand. You’d think an English teacher would be used to hidden meanings, but being the hidden meaning in your own life can be really isolating.

Could I BE any more of a philosopher at 2 AM? And yet, in that same breath of hurt, there is this defiant spark of excitement. It’s a paradox I can’t quite explain to anyone else. Even when I feel forgotten by the world, I don’t feel forgotten by God.

I hold onto the belief that because I am a good person, because I lead with my heart even when it’s bruised, better days are being scripted for me. I’m just in the middle of a long, quiet chapter right now. I’m learning to sit in the “alone” without letting it become “lonely,” trusting that the protagonist always finds her way to the light eventually.

As Lorelai Gilmore famously said, “I’m fine. I’m just being dramatic. It’s what I do.” But maybe the drama is just my soul’s way of saying it’s ready for something bigger.

Current Status: Deep in thought, deep in faith, and waiting for the better days to finally introduce themselves. 🌙✨🕯️