I used to think I had to keep thinking to survive. That if I stopped, something terrifying would rise to meet me. Now I'm learning that what's underneath all that thinking isn't a void—it's just me. Me, as awareness. And I'm slowly building the tolerance to exist there.

I’m not broken for clenching all the time—I’m just a body that never learned what safety felt like. Letting go isn’t a fix. It’s a quiet, honest return.

For the first time, I’m not thinking about hiking to burn calories. I’m thinking about walking through space and feeling alive in it. This shift isn’t about discipline—it’s about desire.

You don’t owe kindness, connection, or performance—but you can choose what kind of reality you want to inhabit. These aren’t moral obligations. They’re existential choices.

I didn’t become this size on purpose. My body is the result of compulsion, emotional neglect, and survival—not a symbol, not a statement, and not a failure to love myself.

Years ago, imagining Steve Martin pooping helped me feel less alone in my existential spirals. Watching his recent documentary brought it full circle—and reminded me of the comfort in shared humanness.

This isn’t about sharing new information—it’s about letting your friends know something finally settled inside you. Here’s how to explain the shift without over-explaining.

After a major existential shift, it’s normal to feel disoriented. Here’s a grounding recap of what changed, why it matters, and how to navigate today with softness.

Realizing your suffering had a structure all along is a massive psychological shift. Now that the fog is clearing, the work becomes living with that awareness—and learning how to carry it forward.

For most of my life, my body felt heavy, like it was collapsing inward. But recently, stretching and opening up have helped me feel more three-dimensional—more alive—in ways I never expected.