There was a time in my life when I thought I needed to have all the answers. I believed that if I could figure everything out, I would finally feel secure, accomplished, and at peace. So, I’d set ambitious goals, push myself relentlessly to achieve them, and agonize over every little setback. Still, I didn’t realize how my dreams turned into burdens I carried constantly, weighing heavily on my mind and heart. They whispered to me in every quiet moment, reminding me of their urgency and of how incomplete I felt without them.
I still remember one of those obsessions. Let’s just call it “the dream” for now. The dream seemed like it would complete me. I wanted it because I thought having it would mean I was enough—worthy, successful, fulfilled. But the harder I chased it, the more it seemed to slip away, like sand running through my fingers. It consumed me: sleepless nights, countless plans, disappointment so heavy I could hardly breathe. It felt like a force I had to fight, a never-ending battle to get what I “had” to have.
Then, something shifted. I don’t know exactly when or how. Maybe it was after one of those sleepless nights when I’d run out of plans and energy, or maybe it came quietly during a walk outside, watching the world move without me. The shift wasn’t sudden; it was more like a slow unburdening—as if my heart gently reminded me of something I’d forgotten.
