Quiet Unraveling

Today marks eleven days since I deleted Instagram off my phone—but hey, who’s counting.

Going into this year, I told myself I wanted to be more intentional with how I use my time. Intentional is a word I’ve used often, but rarely practiced unless I was under pressure. Most times, what I called intention was really just intensity—disguised as purpose. The two look similar, but they are vastly different.

When I think about these seven years of my thirties, each year feels like it arrived with its own challenge. Sometimes life feels like a video game—Crash Bandicoot, specifically. No matter how many times you’ve played the level, a new obstacle appears when you least expect it.

The only difference is that in real life, we don’t get a reset button.

Or… do we?

What if we viewed life’s obstacles as invitations to try again? To press reset and start the level over? Because, honestly—what do we really have to lose?

2025 was an interesting year for me. I say interesting because I’m still piecing it together. Over the last two years especially, I’ve experienced a deeper level of transition. Usually when things fall apart, it feels chaotic—like losing control. But 2025 didn’t feel like that. The shift was subtle. The changes were the result of plans I had made.

And yet—just like that video game—even though I planned ahead, I was still caught off guard.

But how?

I had Plan A.

Plan B.

And even a “just in case” Plan C.

And still… things didn’t go according to plan.

Or maybe they did.

Maybe my plans just weren’t good.

Maybe they lacked clarity.

Maybe they lacked intention.

At any rate, here I am—in transition.

I sold my house because, sis, I’ve been planning to move to New York. Remember? That was the plan. The one that wasn’t supposed to need a backup because it was the only plan.

Yeah… let’s just say things didn’t go as planned.

We’ll get into that later.

What I’m learning is that transition requires sitting in uncertainty. It requires patience. And it requires something more than intention—it requires discipline. A kind of discipline I never took the time to learn.

My entire life, I’ve been surviving.

Some of my plans worked not because they were good, but because I relied on intensity—on resilience learned through necessity.

I’ve retired that word, by the way.

Resilience is something to be proud of, but it shouldn’t be worn as a badge of honor. Like most things, it deserves its proper place.

I’m no longer surviving in resilience.

I’m thriving in moments of peace.

2025—we came, we saw, and we conquered fear.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of loss.

Fear of starting over.

I learned more about myself in 2025 than I have in my entire thirties. Much of that came from unadulterated honesty—hard conversations with myself, followed by prayer.

This has been a quiet unraveling.

One that was necessary.

Sometimes in life, we have to start over.

The space between peace and clarity can feel like a quiet scream—louder than a whisper. And when life gets loud, especially when it matters, it deserves a pause.

A pause that says: This matters enough to do it correctly.

I’ve learned that when it comes to friendship, love, and life decisions—those are the moments that carry us. The moments that remind us that yes, we may stumble, make mistakes, hit bumps along the way—and that’s okay.

Because just like that video game, we can always hit reset and try again.