10 min · There is a particular ache in waiting to be rescued, the held breath of hoping that someone, or something, will finally arrive and fix what is wrong.
10 min · Some of what we carry was never authored by us. Fears handed down, labels absorbed in childhood, a caution that belonged to someone else's life.
10 min · Somewhere inside you, there is a clock you never agreed to set. It says you should be further along by now, that you should have arrived already.
10 min · There is a wound you keep returning to. Not a fresh one, but an old one you reopen by remembering, rehearsing the same few sentences until they gleam with grievance.