As the year edges toward its final days, I’ve been thinking about how strangely it unfolded. It began with momentum — the kind that makes you believe you’re finally catching a tailwind — but somewhere along the way, the trajectory faltered. The last stretch dipped sharply, almost theatrically, as if life had been waiting to throw a black‑swan plot twist just when I thought I had the rhythm figured out.
I keep hoping these chaotic two months have already exhausted the worst of it, and that what comes next will be steadier, more linear, less punishing. It took so much effort just to get here, and there are still so many goals sitting untouched. Time feels increasingly scarce, and the fact that I’m still relying on physical labor to stay afloat is something I’m struggling to reconcile with the version of myself I thought I’d become by now.
Lately, I’ve been forcing myself to overhaul my diet, trying to coax a bit more resilience out of my body, while also taking on more work than I’d prefer. None of it comes with guarantees. After years of trial and error, detours have become a kind of default setting — a familiar, if exhausting, pattern.
I’m no longer intimidated by difficulty; I’ve lived with it long enough to stop flinching. What unsettles me now is the one variable I can’t negotiate with: time. It moves the way it wants, indifferent to effort, discipline, or desire. And maybe that’s the part I’m still learning to live with.
