We were in a rush to arrive.
To be chosen. To be exceptional.
To prove that we could do it all — and do it flawlessly.
We wore our exhaustion like a badge of honour.
We mistook performance for purpose,
noise for progress,
validation for value.
We thought if we just ran faster, said yes louder, smiled longer — we’d make it.
But we missed exits.
Swallowed our instincts.
Took detours we didn’t have to take, just to be polite.
We invested in people who hadn’t earned our trust,
and ignored the slow whisper of wisdom that said:
“This isn’t it.”
We kept showing up — not because it was right,
but because quitting felt like failure,
and boundaries felt like betrayal.
We used to think saying “I don’t know” was weakness.
Now we know it’s maturity.
We used to flinch at solitude.
Now we crave it — not as an escape, but as a returning.
This isn’t bitterness. This is calibration.
The softening that comes after the storm.
The steadying of hands once shaky from reaching too hard.
Now we don’t explain so much.
We don’t chase closure.
We don’t fight to be understood by those committed to misunderstanding us.
We choose peace over proving.
Solitude over shallow.
Depth over display.
And when asked where we’ve been,
we say simply: “Becoming.”
Because life in the fast lane was thrilling —
but wisdom tastes better slow.
Let this be a love letter to the self that survived that version of us.
The one who didn’t know better. The one who tried.
And the one who now, gently,
chooses differently.
