Some days it feels like I’m moving through air that’s turned to glass,
Thick and unmoving, as if every step I take presses against a world
That refuses to shift even an inch to make room for me.
I watch other people pass by in clean, easy lines,
Their plans unfolding, their voices clear, their choices sharp,
While I’m caught in this strange pause,
A place where nothing is wrong exactly,
But nothing feels right enough to move toward either.
There’s a version of me in my head who walks forward without hesitation,
Who chooses a direction and trusts it,
Who doesn’t spend every morning trying to negotiate
With the weight sitting quietly in her chest.
But the real me lingers at the doorway of decisions,
Hands hovering, heart unsure, waiting for a sign,
That never seems to come in the language I understand.
It’s strange how stillness can feel more exhausting than motion,
How staying in one place can drain you more,
Than running toward something you aren’t even sure you want.
The days blur into each other with the softness of fog,
And I keep telling myself tomorrow will be clearer,
Tomorrow I’ll know what I’m waiting for,
Tomorrow I’ll find the thread to pull myself out.
Yet tomorrow arrives wearing the same grey face,
Quiet and unchanged, haunting me, same as ever.
But somewhere beneath the heaviness,
There’s a faint hum,
A reminder that being stuck is not failure,
Only a pause between who I was
And whoever I’m becoming next.
Even the tide rests before it shifts,
Even the seasons hesitate before they turn.
So maybe this stillness, as suffocating as it feels,
Is the breathing space before momentum returns,
The universe holding me by the shoulders,
Whispering not yet, not now, you’re gathering strength you can’t see.
And maybe one morning, without warning,
The glass around me will crack into light,
And I’ll finally move again, not because I forced myself out,
But because the world opened just enough, to let me pass through.