I don’t want you to think I have it all together.
That I’ve cracked some code.
That I’m thriving in the best way a human possibly can.
I live in a van.
I shower at a gym.
I’m still figuring out how to store food
without it going bad
and cook without setting off the smoke alarm.
My essays might read like I’m enlightened.
Like I’ve found peace, or purpose, or some mystical alignment with the moon.
Like I sit cross legged and breathe in answers.
But that’s not the case.
And that’s not the point.
The point is
I’m working on it.
The point is
I’m trying to find out who the hell I am,
and where I fit in a world that never really made space for me.
For so long, I didn’t have a reason.
Didn’t have a calling.
Didn’t have a damn clue what I was doing except trying to feel less empty.
And now?
Now I’m trying so fucking hard
to figure out my place.
To find out what I’m good for.
To share what I can share.
To give what I can give.
And still have something left
that feels like it’s mine.
I know, I know
Sometimes it might sound like I used to be a terrible person
and now I’m blessed.
Now I’m all healed.
Now I’m good.
But that’s not the story I’m telling.
I’m not some before and after testimonial.
I’m not a clean narrative.
I’m not standing here polished and whole.
I’ve been broken.
Rebuilt.
Broken again.
So many times I’ve lost count.
I’m still trying to figure out which pieces are actually mine
and which ones I stole
just to feel like I belonged.
I’m trying to find out
if the mask I wear is a mask at all
or if maybe, it’s just my face now.
And if it is…
what does that mean?
I’m not sure.
But I am showing up.
Even like this. cracked, unfinished, a little lost.
I’m showing up.
And I’m working
so hard
to figure it out.