Broken Walls
2026-05-25
There have been many times where I have faced a situation and didn't act.
I'll have that gut feeling, and it'll tell me that I need to say this or do that, but I decided not to. It's tough to put that up against times where I've acted too impulsively, and it makes me wonder where my errors in discernment truly have been. Why is it that sometimes I act right away, but other times I hesitate? Generally, I'm a conflict-averse person. I don't like it when people are mad at me, and of course I've gotten better at handling that as an adult—knowing when to stand up for myself or correct others—but I generally try not to stir up negative emotions in others. At times, though, this will lead to me going along with something I know isn't right. Sometimes my moral barometer isn't fully tuned, I suppose. But yeah, there are plenty of times where I wish I would've been more disagreeable. My issue is that whenever I get into an argument with someone, I've found that while I might perceive myself as being diplomatic or rational, that isn't the signal that always gets received. Some people might be intimidated by my style sometimes, mostly because I can come off as loud and abrasive, especially when I'm feeling socially relaxed.
Many social situations have me feeling like I'm Goldilocks, weirdly enough. Too hot, too cold; too talkative, too quiet; too much, too little. But I think deeper than what I ought to do is an emptiness I feel when I'm out and about, or even just chatting online or wherever else. That might just be a lack of novelty. Getting into a certain routine provides stability and comfort, but the lack of novelty can get to me after a while. However, I have a weird problem: despite wanting novelty, the energy it takes to do that has become sparse as I've gotten older and have faced periods of declining health. Sometimes I want peace and quiet, but other times I crave adventure; there could be a new person I meet who tells me an interesting story, or even a new activity I otherwise wouldn't have wanted to do if it weren't for someone else approaching me with an idea. Like Bilbo, I'd tell Gandalf "not today" because I'm too comfortable at home with my hairy feet laid up on my chair and enjoying a nice snack. Life, however, has a way of thrusting itself onto us, I fear.
And that fear is a tough thing to carry. I know for me, I've slipped through so many obligations that it makes me feel immense shame. The fact that my efforts weren't enough, that I get so tired and burn out—it's the toughest thing for me to carry. But I've realized the root of the problem stems from my pride, more specifically haughty ambitions. I can have all the dreams and ideas in the world, but the application is a different thing entirely. I get so clouded by my own judgment that I forget to ground myself in realism. I've struggled with keeping a coherent view on reality as a whole, so that problem makes sense. I can focus too much on what could be, forgetting what it actually is. Having to humble myself in this regard has been a difficult task in itself, but with the struggles of fatigue and depression, I've learned not to ask so much from myself and to have peace with what I can achieve in a given day. More than that, I've taken inventory on what actually matters, and that stance is a smaller one than I initially thought; I don't want to be so busy with my head in the clouds that I forget my feet are still planted to the ground.
A kind word, a funny joke, a silly story—those things matter infinitely more than some groundbreaking work of art or technology. It's easier to do those things, but harder to feel happy about doing them. I don't want to feel so distracted by my anxieties about what could be. The moment itself is a precious thing to carry. As time marches on, I want to take those seconds and not let them leave me behind. I don't know what will come of my life, but I do know that it's a small part in something greater, and I don't want to let my pride swallow me and force me inside of myself for too long. Things come and go, but we always have that moment to stay in. I've never been one to make plans too far ahead, but I try to focus on what I can do today. All I can do after each day is look back on the thousands that preceded it and make a judgment on how to move forward in the moment. That's a fine way to live for me, and I have no qualms with it.
I've just struggled with feeling healthy, staying sane, and remembering that I have people who love me. All this other stuff—it gets in the way of that. It makes me carry too much, and I'm fine with taking a small pit stop wherever I can. I'm in no rush, really. It's here today, gone in a few hours, quite frankly. I've gotten better at sitting with my feelings, acknowledging them, accepting them, and moving on to that next small impulse. It might make for a bumpy ride for some, but for me, those small details make the whole ride. When there are nights I can't sleep, I get worried because I know I'll have to take one of my pills and sleep the next day away. But I'd rather find consolation in my rest and not have to worry about what might slip away if I stop moving for a bit. If I lose track of my obligations, then so be it. I don't want to control that anymore. I can't. I know I have something to offer to someone, and every day I keep living, I know there will be that person who takes it and uses it to do something for themselves or someone else.
So go ahead—take it.
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