The finish line doesn’t exist. Neither does the version of you who’s finally ready.
I’ve been in the waiting room for two years.
Not a literal one, though I know those well enough… fluorescent lights, magazines no one reads, the strange companionship of strangers all pretending not to be anxious.
The waiting room I mean is the one we build inside ourselves. The one where we sit with our coffee and our carefully maintained sense of self and tell ourselves we’re not ready yet. That love, friendship, full emotional presence, all of it is just around the corner.
Past the next breakthrough, the next therapy session, the next version of ourselves we haven’t quite become.
I’ve gotten very comfortable in mine.
The Waiting Room We Renovated and Called Growth
Something quietly shifts when healing stops being something you move through and becomes somewhere you live. I’m not sure when it happened for me. There was a period of genuine work… the kind where you sit with things you’d spent years running from, where old patterns become visible and old scripts get rewritten. And then, somewhere after that, “I’m still healing” became less a truth and…
