The Space Between What I Want and What I Can Carry

There’s a version of me who can carry it all… but I’m starting to wonder if she’s only a myth.

Lately, I’ve been living in a kind of limbo—knowing change is standing at my door, but not feeling ready to open it. In my case, the door will open whether I’m ready or not. There’s even a scheduled arrival, which somehow makes the waiting worse.

This morning, I’m in my living room, sipping coffee, finishing the Wordle, getting ready for hot yoga. But in the back of my mind, there’s this quiet realization: this might be one of the last slow mornings I have before change comes swinging through. It makes my coffee taste burnt.

I keep wondering why I can’t just enjoy these moments without letting the shadow of the future creep in. The truth is, I could still have mornings like this after the change comes—but my brain has already started rehearsing the loss.

These peaceful mornings—the ones I fear I might lose—are what keep me steady when the world grows too loud. The thought of losing this time, of having to search for a new way to ground myself, scares me…for my mind, and for my heart.

Knowing I won’t have the energy to do everything I’ll want to when this change arrives has kept me up at night. Some days, I have to force myself to make dinner even when the only thing on my calendar is the couch, a glass of wine, and an episode of The Summer I Turned Pretty. What will it be like after a full day of work, a paper due, an exam to study for, a quick shower—when all I’ll want is that glass of wine, not the two hours of cooking and cleaning? And exercise, the one thing that steadies my body and quiets the dysmorphia when I’m consistent, will inevitably slide to the bottom of the list.

People say “everything will work out” like it’s a blanket you can wrap around your anxiety. But sometimes, that blanket feels too thin. It doesn’t stop the shiver. It doesn’t quiet the questions. And honestly, sometimes it makes me angry—because what if I don’t want “everything” to just work out? What if I want it to work out the way I’ve pictured it?

Even if there’s truth in that thought, it doesn’t quiet my busy mind. Yes, it will work out—but at what cost?

It feels like standing in the last patch of sunlight before the storm rolls in…wanting to soak it in, but already bracing for the wind. If you couldn’t tell, my change is going back to school. Yes, I actually finished an application and got accepted... and as excited as I am about that... I know my life will never be the same after that first class—and it terrifies me.

In the quiet between all that mental noise, I notice something…I can see the ending approaching. I feel like I’m watching my life in slow motion. How do I savor these last few moments—the end of an era? For the first time, I can actually see the ending coming before it arrives. Usually, I just wake up one day and realize everything’s changed. Only then can I look back, reminisce, and move forward.

I guess acceptance isn’t some big, clear moment—it’s more like stumbling through the dark, trying to figure out how to breathe in a new space. I might not have the energy to hold everything together or keep all my old routines. “Everything working out” feels like a lie sometimes, like maybe it just means surviving the chaos rather than having it all figured out. And even as I tell myself to be gentle with myself, I catch the frustration bubbling up…because letting go isn’t easy, and who even knows who or what I’m becoming?

On those nights I can't sleep, I lie awake tangled in questions I don’t have answers for. What if this change means losing parts of myself I’m not ready to say goodbye to? What if the new version of me doesn’t feel like me at all? And yet, despite the fear and unraveling, I know I have to show up—even if it’s messy, even if it’s unsure... even if it’s nothing like I imagined.

But maybe I can shift those questions to something more hopeful—what if this change brings something I didn’t expect? What if the new version of me is the friend I’ve been waiting for all along? What if the uncertainty I dread is actually the space where I find something better, even if it doesn’t look like what I imagined? Maybe it’s okay to not have the answers right now, to sit with the questions and still hold onto a flicker of hope. After all, growth isn't easy—it’s uncomfortable... and somehow still worth it.

And even when it is worth it, sometimes I still feel like I'm barely holding on. There’s no map for this part, no perfect way to do it right. But maybe that’s the point: not to have it all figured out, but to keep moving forward anyway. Maybe belonging isn’t about having all the answers or knowing exactly where I’m going. Maybe it’s about trusting that even the wrong turns can drop me somewhere unexpected and beautiful, that some of the best chapters in my life might start as accidents I didn’t plan for.

Maybe it’s more about showing up for myself and less about fearing what happens if I don’t. And maybe showing up just means finding something steady enough to keep me here—a hand on the table, the weight of my feet on the floor, a breath that doesn’t rush to be over. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to start with.

So for now, I’ll sit with my coffee, hold onto these slow mornings a little longer, and wait for the door to open—when I’m ready, or when I’m not.