I said goodbye to you quietly

02-06-2026

©2026 BTMT-TJ

I said goodbye to you quietly. There was no letter written, no speech rehearsed, no dramatic moment to mark the end. It was the kind of goodbye that happens without ceremony, the kind two people understand without ever agreeing on the words. It lived in the pause, in the space where nothing more could be said.

I believed that goodbye would bring peace, and in some ways it did. Still, questions linger. I catch myself wondering who I would be to you now. I wonder how you would read the words I write today, what you would think of the ideas that occupy my mind, how time might have reshaped the way you saw me if our lives had not drifted apart. Those thoughts arrive uninvited, carrying a tenderness that surprises me.

I said goodbye to you, yet the mind has a habit of wandering into alternate versions of reality. There are moments when I imagine a life where you remained, where we continued alongside each other. Those imagined paths feel vivid, almost reachable. Still, no amount of wondering changes what is true. You are no longer here, and the story we shared has reached its ending.

What I miss may not be you as you truly were. It may be the version of you shaped by memory and longing, softened by distance, edited by time. The person I revisit in my thoughts may never have existed in quite that way. Perhaps what I miss is the idea of you, the comfort of what I believed we were, rather than the reality we lived.

I said goodbye to you, though letting go has not been simple. You occupied so much space in my life that moving forward without you feels disorienting. Your presence was threaded through ordinary moments, habits, and places. Without it, something feels unfinished, as though a sentence ended too soon.

Even so, I know that reopening that door would not bring healing. Growth has carried us in different directions. There is no blame in that, only change. I understand that seeing you again would stir memories I have worked hard to steady. The pain would return alongside the nostalgia, and I would lose my footing all over again.

The past cannot be revisited without cost. What was cannot be restored, and distance has become a form of care.

I said goodbye to you, and I am learning to release the question of what might have been. The answer never changes. What has ended has ended for a reason. Some things are meant to remain in the past.

Acceptance is a practice. I am learning to stop searching for you in familiar streets, in strangers’ faces, in echoes of old conversations. I am learning to let your absence be real, rather than filling it with imagined returns. This time, the letting go is intentional.

Thank you for what we shared, for the moments that felt light and the ones that hurt. Thank you for being present when I needed connection. Thank you for the ways you made me feel seen, even briefly. Gratitude can exist alongside pain. Both shaped who I am now.

This goodbye is not dramatic. It is honest.

I release you, and I release the story of what could have been.

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Love should never demand that you change in order to be worthy of it.

02-06-2026

©2026 BTMT-TJ

I once believed that love should arrive without requirements. That it should be unconditional in the purest sense, asking nothing of us and leaving us exactly as we are. To be loved, in that view, meant being accepted fully and immediately, without edits or adjustments, without having to become anything other than who we already were.

That belief is not wrong. Love should never demand that you change in order to be worthy of it. It should not become transactional or conditional, keeping score of effort or sacrifice. Love should welcome you in all of your states, in your confidence and in your doubt, in your tenderness and in your shame.

Still, there is another truth that took me much longer to understand. Love, when it is allowed to deepen, has a way of inviting change.

Not the kind of change that erases you or reshapes you into something unrecognizable. Rather, the kind that asks you to stay present with yourself instead of turning away. Love may ask you to feel what you have learned to avoid. It may want to see the parts of you that have lived in the dark for a long time. It may ask you to trust again, even while knowing that trust always carries the risk of being hurt.

We are often taught to expect love to arrive complete and effortless, as though it should bloom fully formed and remain untouched by time or struggle. What we hear less often is that love grows, and growth rarely leaves us unchanged. When love matures, it asks something quiet yet demanding of us. It asks whether we are willing to grow alongside it.

I used to think love was the answer to everything. Now I see it more as an invitation, even a challenge. Love asks difficult questions without raising its voice. Can you remain present when it would be easier to disappear? Can you speak honestly when silence once protected you? Can you allow yourself to be influenced, shaped, and expanded by connection?

True love does not force transformation. It does not break you down or insist that you become someone else. Still, it creates a space where staying exactly the same begins to feel uncomfortable. Not because you are lacking, but because there is more available to you. More depth. More awareness. More capacity to give and receive.

Love does not require you to abandon who you are. It does, however, leave its mark. It changes how you listen. It changes how you speak. It changes how you stay when things become difficult. These shifts do not erase you. They refine you.

Perhaps this is what it truly means to be loved. Not to be preserved in stillness, frozen in a single version of yourself, but to be met so fully and honestly that change becomes possible. To be changed without being lost.

 

Grief changes us, sometimes all at once, sometimes gradually, yet always profoundly.

02-05-2026

©2026 BTMT-TJ

Grief changes us, sometimes all at once, sometimes gradually, yet always profoundly. 

Most of us learn to recognize grief only in its most visible forms. We associate it with losses that arrive with certainty and permission. Someone dies. A relationship ends. A chapter closes in a way that leaves no ambiguity. There is a clear before and after, a story that makes sense to tell, a pain that others immediately understand.

In that framing, grief feels legitimate. It has a name. It has witnesses. It does not require explanation.

The trouble begins when something inside us feels heavy without fitting that familiar narrative. There is a weight we cannot point to, a longing without a clear object, an absence that resists definition. We search for reasons and come up empty. The feeling does not match the stories we have been taught to associate with grief, so we dismiss it. We call it exhaustion. We call it sensitivity. We call it overthinking.

Still, it lingers.

There comes a quiet and unsettling question in moments like these. What if this, too, is grief. What if we have been carrying it unnamed for far longer than we realized.

Some grief announces itself immediately. It arrives when someone who felt permanent is suddenly gone. The absence is unmistakable. The world rearranges itself around the space they once occupied. Time moves differently. Even ordinary moments feel altered, as if the body must relearn how to exist in a reality that no longer includes them.

This kind of grief is widely recognized, yet it is rarely simple. It does not resolve so much as it stretches. We learn how to carry the loss while continuing forward, how to hold memory and absence in the same breath. Life continues, not because the grief ends, but because we learn how to live alongside it.

Other forms of grief are quieter and more confusing. Sometimes nothing officially ends, yet everything feels different. A relationship still exists on paper. A friendship remains intact in name. There is no dramatic rupture, no clear moment that signals a loss. Still, the ease that once defined the connection disappears. The closeness becomes unreachable.

This kind of grief often arises from internal change. Values shift. Boundaries sharpen. Priorities rearrange themselves. The other person may remain the same, yet the version of you that once met them effortlessly no longer exists. There is no villain in this story. No betrayal. No abandonment. What is lost is a shared rhythm, a mutual understanding that once required no effort and can no longer be recreated.

There is grief in that realization, even when love remains.

Internal transformation brings its own mourning as well. Growth requires releasing identities and patterns that once felt necessary. Beliefs that offered safety at one stage of life can begin to feel restrictive at another. Roles built around approval, achievement, or perfection may have helped you survive, helped you belong, helped you feel secure.

When those parts no longer fit, letting them go can feel surprisingly sad. Even unhealthy coping strategies often carried a promise of protection. Releasing them means acknowledging that they once served a purpose. It also means saying goodbye to a version of yourself who did their best with what they had. Becoming someone new often requires grieving who you used to be.

Some of the deepest grief lives in what was never given. Love withheld. Support that never arrived. Care that was inconsistent or conditional. This grief does not come from losing something you had, but from realizing how much you needed something that never fully existed.

This kind of grief matters. Naming it does not mean assigning blame or reopening old wounds. It means honoring the truth that absence leaves a mark. It means recognizing that unmet needs shaped you in ways both visible and unseen. Allowing yourself to grieve what you deserved but did not receive can be a profound act of self compassion.

Grief also lives in the futures we imagined and never reached. Plans that felt certain. Paths that seemed inevitable. When those visions dissolve, the loss can feel disorienting. Even when life eventually brings something meaningful in a different direction, the original hope still deserves to be mourned.

Disappointment does not disappear simply because a new door opens. Grieving what did not unfold as expected makes room for clarity. Often, what feels like an ending reveals itself later as a redirection. The path was not erased, only changed.

Grief rarely arrives in a single, orderly form. It overlaps. It layers. It lingers. It moves through relationships, identities, expectations, and dreams. It does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it simply hums beneath the surface, asking to be acknowledged.

When grief is named, it begins to soften. When it is allowed, it becomes less isolating. Even when it remains painful, it deepens us. It expands our capacity for empathy, presence, and understanding.

If any part of this feels familiar in ways that are difficult to articulate, that recognition alone matters. You are not alone in carrying unnamed grief. Many of us are learning, slowly and imperfectly, how to hold it with care.

Grief changes us, sometimes all at once, sometimes gradually, yet always profoundly. Even so, we continue. We adapt. We become.

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Being disliked does not mean you are doing something wrong.

02-04-2026

©2026 BTMT-TJ

Being disliked does not mean you are doing something wrong.

There will always be people who dislike what you do. That truth is uncomfortable, yet it is also freeing once you stop fighting it.

Humans are social by design, often in the most inconvenient way. We are wired to notice one another, measure ourselves against one another, and adjust our behavior in order to stay included. Belonging has always been a form of safety. Long before likes, comments, or algorithms existed, approval meant survival. For hundreds of thousands of years, being accepted by the group kept us fed and protected. That wiring did not disappear just because society modernized.

Because of that, caring what others think is not a personal flaw. It is biological. Even the most independent thinkers still glance sideways, if only briefly, to see whether they are being accepted, admired, or at least tolerated. There is a quiet belief inside many of us that we need permission from others to take up space.

At the same time, humans are endlessly opinionated. Everyone views the world through a different lens shaped by culture, upbringing, values, aesthetics, and experience. What is praised in one space may be mocked in another. What feels honest to one person may feel offensive or misguided to someone else.

This is the tension we live inside. We are built to seek approval in a world that can never offer it unanimously.

No matter what you believe, someone will disagree. No matter what you enjoy, someone will find it embarrassing or distasteful. No matter how carefully you speak, someone will decide you are wrong. There is no version of your life that escapes judgment.

That is not a failure. It is a fact.

For a long time, I carried an audience in my head. A crowded room of imagined faces evaluating every thought before it had the chance to become action. Before I spoke, before I created, before I chose, the commentary would begin. Someone would judge. Someone would misunderstand. Someone would decide I was not enough.

Nothing needed to actually happen. I rehearsed their disapproval so thoroughly that it became real. Ideas were abandoned mid breath. Opinions were softened until they lost all meaning. Futures were dismissed before they had the chance to disappoint anyone. Over time, those unlived possibilities piled up quietly, turning my inner world into a place filled with what never happened.

Eventually, I realized the fear beneath it all. I believed there was a correct version of me somewhere. An objectively right way to exist. I thought that if I paid close enough attention to other people’s reactions, I might finally discover it. I treated my life like something that needed constant review before it could be approved.

That version does not exist.

No word escapes opinion. No action avoids interpretation. No human being is universally accepted. Chasing validation does not lead to freedom. It leads to self abandonment.

The irony is that judgment arrives anyway. People who would criticize you will do so regardless of how carefully you curate yourself. The only difference is whether you also lose yourself in the process.

Choosing to live honestly means accepting that some people will not like it. That discomfort is the cost of being real. It is also the proof that you are no longer shrinking yourself to fit into spaces that were never meant to hold you.

These days, I let the imagined audience speak quietly in the background while I move forward. I speak anyway. I try anyway. I create anyway. Disapproval no longer feels like a stop sign. It feels like confirmation that I am finally living a life that belongs to me.

Being disliked does not mean you are doing something wrong. Often, it means you stopped diluting yourself for the comfort of others. That is not failure. That is courage.

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You do not owe the world a perfect explanation of who you are.

©2026 BTMT-TJ

There is a quiet ache that comes from wanting to be understood. The desire feels reasonable, even noble. You want your words to arrive intact. You want your intentions to land without distortion. You want to be seen as a whole person rather than a flattened version shaped by someone else’s assumptions. To be loved, we are told, is to be understood. Following that logic, being misunderstood can feel like standing on the far edge of connection, close to indifference, where your voice no longer matters and your inner life goes unheard.

Over time, though, it becomes clear that misunderstanding may not be a failure of communication at all. It may simply be part of being human. To exist in relationship with others is to accept the risk of being translated into meanings you never intended. Every connection carries that risk. Every interaction reshapes you in someone else’s mind.

The question stops being whether misunderstanding will happen. It almost certainly will. The deeper question becomes whether you can live with the versions of you that others carry, while remaining anchored in who you know yourself to be.

Most people experience this fracture at some point. Friends, family, even those who love you can hold images that feel unrecognizable. Their stories about you do not match your own. When this happens repeatedly, it can erode confidence. You may begin to wonder whether you failed to present yourself clearly, or whether being known at all is even possible. Being misread can feel like erasure, as though parts of you disappear each time someone draws the wrong conclusion.

There is another layer to this struggle. Even you are not always consistent with yourself. There are moments when your actions align with your values and moments when they do not. There are times you act with patience and times you react from impulse. This contradiction raises a painful question. Which version is the real one?

Perhaps the answer is uncomfortable and freeing at the same time. Perhaps you are not meant to be one thing. Perhaps no one is. Human beings are layered, responsive, shaped by context and emotion. If you are many things across time, then it makes sense that no single perception could ever capture you fully. Misunderstanding is not always a misreading. Sometimes it is an incomplete reading of a complex subject.

Seen this way, misunderstanding becomes less personal. No one holds a complete version of you, and no one ever will. That does not mean you are failing to be known. It means you are too expansive to be contained in one interpretation.

If misunderstanding is inevitable, then the work shifts. It becomes less about correcting every false impression and more about learning how to live freely alongside them. Art offers a useful metaphor here. A painting is never understood in only one way. A piece of music carries different meanings depending on who listens and when. Art remains whole even as it is interpreted, misinterpreted, and reinterpreted.

Being human works much the same way. You exist as you are, open to perception, vulnerable to distortion, yet still real. Your worth does not depend on universal clarity.

The art of being misunderstood is the practice of remaining yourself without constantly explaining, defending, or editing your existence. It is allowing others to carry their versions of you while you continue to live in alignment with your own truth. Requiring perfect understanding asks you to shrink into something easily defined. Accepting misunderstanding gives you permission to stay layered, evolving, and alive.

The truest self is rarely the most understood. It is the one that continues to grow, even when clarity is imperfect.

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Love does not last forever

 

02-02-2026 - TJ
©2026 BTMT-TJ

Love does not last forever. Nothing does. Every experience, every connection, every season of life carries an expiration date. That truth can feel unsettling at first, yet it is the very reason anything feels precious at all. What is finite holds weight. What can end asks us to pay attention.

Many people hesitate to say “I love you” or to love fully because they already anticipate the pain of losing it. The mind tries to negotiate with the future, convincing itself that withholding affection will somehow soften the blow when change arrives. People die. People evolve. Relationships shift or conclude. Some last a lifetime. Most do not. The worth of a connection is not measured by how long it endures, but by how honestly you showed up while it was alive.

Avoiding love because it will eventually end is like refusing to admire autumn leaves because winter follows. Transience does not cancel beauty. It creates it.

There is a quiet wisdom in accepting impermanence. Some cultures understand this deeply, seeing beauty not in perfection or permanence, but in the weathered, the incomplete, the passing. When you allow life to be fragile, love becomes more sincere. You stop demanding guarantees. You start valuing presence.

This truth extends far beyond romance. The love you feel for friends, for music that once carried you through a hard season, for a beloved animal, for a shared ritual or team or place, is always in motion. Everything you love is slowly changing. Everything you love will eventually leave you in some way. That does not make love a mistake. It makes love real.

Happiness requires a willingness to acknowledge this. Loving someone or something means accepting that heartbreak is part of the agreement. That is true whether you love a partner, a child, a friend, or a cause. Grief is not evidence that love failed. It is proof that love existed.

Heartbreak is a form of grief. It shows up when someone dies, when affection fades, when choices pull people apart, or when you witness the suffering of someone you love and cannot fix it. Heartbreak does not belong only to romance. Many of the deepest wounds come from friendships that ended quietly or from watching those you love struggle beyond your reach.

If love feels distant or inaccessible, fear may be standing guard. Fear of loss can masquerade as self protection. At some level, you may already know that loving deeply means risking pain. The problem is not that you are avoiding risk. It is that you are avoiding the wrong one.

Love and loss are inseparable. Love is the source of joy, and heartbreak is the ground where meaning takes root. You cannot have one without the other.

Language often fails us here. We use one word to describe many kinds of love, yet all of them grow from the same impulse: the desire to connect. Whether you love a partner, a sibling, a friend, a pet, or even a shared symbol that brings people together, the ache of loss follows the same rule. To love is to open yourself to change.

Choosing not to love does not spare you from pain. Life will still find ways to break your heart. Avoiding love only denies you one of the most vital experiences of being human.

Many people try to protect themselves by controlling the wrong things. Hardening yourself against rejection does not make you strong. It often means you are trying to manage other people instead of tending to your own inner world. You cannot force someone to love you. You cannot direct another person’s feelings or choices. You cannot outsource your happiness or guarantee someone else’s.

What you can control is how you respond. You can choose how you meet disappointment. You can choose how honestly you live. Trying to control others often feels easier than facing grief, yet it leads to isolation. Walls built to block pain also block intimacy.

Loneliness is not a personal failure. It is a human condition that has become increasingly common. The remedy is not complicated, but it is demanding. It requires courage. You must be willing to reach out first. You must be willing to feel the sting of rejection without letting it define you. Pain deserves to be felt, not denied. Grief deserves space. Tears do not mean you are weak. They mean you are alive.

Heartbreak hurts deeply, yet it is rarely the end of you. It does not require you to become cold or guarded. It asks you to remain open.

Softness is not fragility. Softness is resilience. To love is to accept that you will be hurt, yet to keep choosing connection anyway. Growth works the same way. You cannot learn to walk without falling. You cannot live fully without risk.

You will collect bruises along the way. They are not signs that you failed. They are signs that you tried.

A soft heart is a strong heart. It trusts that healing is possible. It believes that love is worth the cost. Happiness does not come from avoiding pain. It comes from staying open despite it.

If you want more joy, consider becoming softer rather than harder. Love asks for courage, not armor.

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Forgiveness 2026

 ©2026 BTMT - TJackson

There is an uncomfortable truth about harm that rarely gets named. The person who caused it often moves on long before the person who endured it. Memory settles differently depending on where the wound landed. One side resumes life. The other carries the imprint in their body, their thoughts, their relationships, and the way they scan the world for safety.

This is where forgiveness becomes complicated.

It is often presented as a moral milestone, something mature people are supposed to reach once enough time has passed. The message is subtle but persistent: forgiving means you have healed, and struggling to forgive means you have failed some internal test. That framing does not heal anyone. It simply relocates the pain and adds shame to it.

Forgiveness is not proof of virtue. It is not a shortcut to peace. It is not a performance of goodness.

Most importantly, it is not owed.

Forgiveness does not arrive because someone demands it or because it sounds spiritually correct. It unfolds slowly, often unevenly, sometimes reluctantly. Attempting to force it before the nervous system feels safe does not create growth. It creates anger that has nowhere to go.

What often gets overlooked is that forgiveness exists for the person who was harmed, not the one who caused the harm. It is not about softening the story or minimizing the damage. It is about no longer allowing someone else’s actions to occupy permanent residence inside your inner life.

Many people believe closure will come in the form of an apology. That belief can quietly keep them trapped. Words do not repair what trauma has altered. Remorse does not undo impact. Even sincere regret cannot reach into the body and restore what was lost. Waiting for acknowledgment often turns into another way of postponing your own healing.

Forgiveness does not mean removing accountability. It does not mean protecting someone from consequences. It does not mean allowing access to your life or pretending the lesson never happened. Forgiveness means choosing not to carry what never belonged to you in the first place.

This is not about fairness. It is about freedom.

The most difficult forgiveness is often the one directed inward. Especially if pain changed the way you responded to the world. Prolonged harm reshapes behavior. Survival creates reactions that may feel unfamiliar or uncomfortable in hindsight. That does not make you broken. It makes you human.

Self forgiveness does not excuse what happened. It acknowledges that you adapted under pressure with the tools you had at the time. That compassion is not indulgence. It is necessary.

You are not required to forgive what feels unforgivable. Healing does not demand emotional amnesia. Sometimes progress begins with something smaller, like the willingness to loosen your grip on the pain. Sometimes the first step is simply wanting to stop carrying it.

Peace is not achieved by erasing the past. It is achieved by refusing to let the past dictate the rest of your life.

Reclaiming your center means becoming selective about which voices shape your inner world. Attention is a form of power. Not everyone deserves influence over how you see yourself or where you are headed. Harm does not earn a permanent seat in your future.

Forgiveness is not about becoming a better person. It is about becoming freer. It is about removing the emotional weight that does not belong to you and placing it back where it originated.

Struggling to let go does not mean you are weak. Anger does not mean you are failing. It means something real happened.

You are allowed to heal without permission.
You are allowed to move forward without closure.
You are allowed to choose peace, even if accountability never comes.

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...and sometimes I like to draw and color...☯️tbp

No one prepares you for what authenticity actually requires

 

01-08-2026

©2025 BTMT-TJ

Carl Jung never offered easy answers. His work was layered, demanding, and often uncomfortable, shaped by nuance rather than simplicity. He understood the psyche as something wild and complex, not something to be reduced or neatly explained. Still, there were moments when his words softened, when he spoke with a surprising clarity that felt almost tender.

During a series of seminars in the nineteen thirties, while reflecting on Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, Jung offered a thought that has stayed with me far longer than many of his more technical ideas. He said that when a person fulfills the pattern that is peculiar to them, something profound happens. Self love becomes possible. Abundance replaces striving. Virtue is no longer forced, because it overflows naturally from a life that is lived truthfully. When a person lives from that place, they radiate.

When I first encountered those words, I immediately asked the question so many people ask. What is my peculiar pattern? What am I actually meant to be?

It is a question that has echoed through generations. Artists, philosophers, leaders, and seekers have all circled it in their own ways. In my younger years, I thought the answer would arrive as a revelation, something dramatic and unmistakable. I believed there would be a moment when everything clicked and the path became obvious.

Time has taught me something more difficult. My peculiar pattern is not a role I perform or a destination I reach. It is the ongoing practice of being authentic. Simple to say, incredibly demanding to live.

No one prepares you for what authenticity actually requires. It is not just about expressing preferences or speaking truth when it feels comfortable. It demands acceptance of the parts of yourself you would rather edit out. It asks for forgiveness of past versions who made choices with limited awareness. It insists that you look directly at your shadow rather than pretending it does not exist.

This process is not gentle. It can be heartbreaking to see yourself clearly for the first time. It can be exhausting to dismantle the identities you built to survive. It can feel isolating to stand in your truth when it no longer fits the expectations around you. Authenticity strips away illusion, including the illusion that growth is graceful.

There were moments when it felt like stepping into fire without any guarantee of survival. Choosing authenticity meant risking rejection, disappointment, and the loss of certainty. It meant trusting that something more honest would emerge, even if I could not yet see its shape.

That is the cost of becoming whole. There is no shortcut around it. The path of individuation is not about becoming exceptional in the eyes of others. It is about becoming real in your own eyes. When you live from that place, what you offer the world is no longer forced or performative. It flows naturally from who you are.

Jung understood this deeply. Abundance does not come from accumulation. It comes from alignment. When you live according to your own pattern, something settles. You stop grasping. You stop proving. You begin to radiate, not because you are trying to shine, but because you are no longer hiding.

That is the quiet truth behind his words. To fulfill your peculiar pattern is not to escape struggle. It is to choose meaning over comfort, honesty over safety, and transformation over stagnation. The fire is real. So is what waits on the other side.

 

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My story is not so different...

 I finally sat down to watch one of my favorite movies, the kind that once belonged to tradition. It was something we used to gather around as a family at Christmas, a familiar story wrapped in warmth and ritual. Watching it alone now landed differently. The quiet made everything louder.
Today, like so many other times, I did not just watch the story. I recognized myself in it.
I understood what it means to have a life shaped by interruptions. To have dreams deferred not because they were impossible, but because responsibility kept stepping in front of them. Over the years, so many forces redirected my path. Obligation. Loyalty. Love. The steady pull of being needed. I built a life defined by care for others, by showing up, by sacrificing without keeping score. I did a great deal, and I am proud of that. But I also gave up more than most people ever saw.
For a long time, I believed that was simply the cost of being good, of being reliable, of being loved. I stayed where I was planted. I became the version of myself that fit everyone else’s needs. And in doing so, I slowly disappeared from my own life.
When I finally chose myself—when I made the decision to do what I needed in order to stay alive, to follow my heart rather than silence it—the response was not relief or understanding. It was distance. It was rejection. The very people I had poured myself into could not accept the version of me that no longer bent.
I am not telling this story for sympathy. I do not need it, and I do not want it. I am telling it as a warning.
Be careful what you wish for. The life you settle for may arrive quietly and feel noble at first. It may look like love, duty, or doing the right thing. But if it costs you your own voice, your own becoming, the price may be far higher than you imagined.
Living for others can feel safe. Living on your own terms can feel terrifying. But the alternative—waking up one day and realizing you lived someone else’s dream at the expense of your own—is far worse.
Choose wisely. Choose early. And do not wait until the room is empty and the screen is flickering in the dark to realize what it cost you not to.
©2025 TJackson 

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Is this really it?

12-15-2025
©2025 BTMT -TJ
There have been moments, and perhaps you have felt them too, when I looked around at the life I had carefully built and felt a quiet jolt of recognition. A single, unsettling question surfaced. Is this really it?

The days followed familiar patterns. The same routines. The same deadlines. The same roles played well enough to keep everything running. Yet something inside me whispered that this life no longer fit. Not because it was wrong, but because it had grown too small.

For a long time, I treated that feeling as a flaw. I assumed it was resistance or ingratitude or a lack of discipline. I believed the right response was to push through it. Over time, I learned something different. Discomfort is rarely a problem. More often, it is the first signal that your life is trying to get your attention.

Most of us expect clarity to arrive fully formed, like a lightning strike that suddenly reveals exactly what comes next. Change does not usually unfold that way. Clarity tends to follow movement, not precede it. It arrives because you begin shifting, not because you have everything figured out. The earliest nudge almost always feels like restlessness, frustration, or a quiet heaviness that is difficult to explain.

Each time I outgrew a version of my life, the warning sign was never insight. It was unease. A subtle no. A sense that I was performing interest rather than feeling it. That discomfort was not there to punish me. It was loosening my grip on what I had already outgrown. If everything had remained comfortable, I would have stayed indefinitely, repeating the same season long after it had finished teaching me what it could.

Discomfort has a way of opening doors by first making the room feel too tight. It creates the conditions that allow something new to enter.

One of the most liberating realizations I had was this: the brain cannot fully desire a future it has never experienced. Mine kept trying to solve everything using the only material it had available, my past. Every attempt to figure out what I wanted led me in familiar circles. Endless lists. Long conversations. Pages of journaling. More confusion than clarity. The next chapter of your life requires a version of you that has not fully arrived yet. That is why clarity often feels incomplete. It is still forming alongside you.

Looking back, I can see that discomfort was quietly doing important work. It helped me release roles, routines, and identities that no longer felt like home, even when they once fit beautifully. It created space where something new could land, even when everything appeared fine from the outside. It pointed with precision toward what needed to change, showing up not everywhere at once, but in specific places. Energy draining where it once flowed. Connection thinning where it once felt natural. Time feeling misused instead of meaningful.

Where friction appears most consistently is often where life is asking for attention.

When I found myself wanting a different life without knowing what that life looked like, I stopped chasing answers and started observing my own experience. I began noticing the moments that felt off. The sudden drop in energy. The sense of invisibility or disconnection. The days that ended without a single moment I cared to remember. The loneliness that appeared even in familiar company. Writing these moments down without trying to solve them brought more clarity than forcing decisions ever had.

Over time, patterns emerged. Themes repeated themselves with honesty. For me, the thread was meaning and alignment, a desire for work that reflected who I was becoming internally. For others, the pattern might be time, creativity, freedom, connection, or the simple longing to feel alive again. Patterns tell the truth in ways that overthinking rarely does.

When clarity began to surface, I resisted the urge to overhaul everything at once. Instead, I made one small shift that created a sense of relief. Sometimes it was carving out time for creativity. Sometimes it was allowing new possibilities to exist without pressure. Real change rarely announces itself dramatically. It unfolds quietly, piece by piece, long before anyone else notices.

If you feel the pull toward something different right now, it may be because something new is trying to come into focus. You do not need to know what it looks like yet. Pay attention to what feels tight. Notice what feels hollow. Track what energizes you and what drains you. Gather information from your own life with patience and curiosity. Then take a small step toward what is emerging and see how your system responds.

One day, you may look back and realize those early moments of discomfort were not signs of failure or dissatisfaction. They were signals of growth. They were not the beginning of the end. They were the beginning of the beginning.

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Arrival

She does not wait at windows anymore. 

She does not chase footsteps that fade. 

She does not confuse longing with love or silence with mystery. What remains is her. 

Standing whole. 

Unapologetic. 

Unreachable by anyone who cannot meet her where she stands. 

And that is not loss. 

That is arrival.  

 

©2025 BTMT-TJ