All I know is that I’ve wasted all these years chasing something.
A prize. A title. A sense of worth that always hovered just out of reach.
I kept thinking, If I just work hard enough… if I just fix myself enough… then maybe I’ll deserve it.
Deserve what?
I’m not even sure anymore.
Maybe it was love. Maybe it was acceptance. Maybe it was just peace.
But for so long, I thought I had to earn it—had to climb high enough, shine bright enough, suffer quietly enough to finally be enough.
It’s exhausting, you know? Living like your life is a constant audition. Like every choice, every word, every failure is a vote against your right to be loved.
I don’t want to live like that anymore.
I used to think the goal was to be impressive. To be praised. To be wanted because of how well I performed—how perfectly I presented myself.
But that only made me feel lonelier. Because the more people admired me, the more afraid I became that if I ever stopped performing, they’d disappear.
And they did.
When I crumbled, when I failed, when I couldn’t keep up the act—many left.
And maybe that’s what hurt the most. Not the failure, but the realization that their love had terms. That their affection was a contract, not a promise.
So here I am now.
Not at the top of any mountain. Not holding any shining trophy.
But more clear-headed than I’ve ever been.
Because I’ve realized—I don’t want that anymore.
I don’t want to chase love like it’s a finish line.
I don’t want to earn my place at the table every single day.
I don’t want affection that arrives only when I’m “winning,” or belonging that hinges on being palatable.
What I want now is simple.
I want something warm.
Something sheltering.
Something I can turn to not when I’m perfect, but when I’m broken.
When I’m not enough. When I’m tired. When I’m lost.
I want a place—or a person—that feels like home.
Not a museum filled with shiny accomplishments, but a soft couch with a blanket that smells like comfort.
Not applause, but quiet.
Not pressure, but presence.
Something that will just be there, regardless of who I am that day.
Regardless of whether I fail or succeed.
Something—or someone—who doesn’t ask me to earn their love, but offers it freely, like sunlight on your skin, like tomorrow’s sky.
Because that’s the thing about the sky.
It doesn’t ask anything of you.
You don’t have to deserve it.
You just look up—and it’s there.
Even on cloudy days, it’s there. Even at night. Even when you forget it exists.
And maybe… that’s the kind of love I want.
Something that doesn’t leave when I’m too quiet, too messy, too unsure.
Something that stays—not because I’m always lovable, but because it chooses to.
Because love, real love, shouldn’t be a prize.
It should be a refuge.
And you know what? I think I’m finally ready to stop running.
Ready to stop striving toward an image of myself that was never mine to begin with.
Ready to stop proving and polishing and pretending.
Ready to stop chasing after people who only clap when I’m performing.
I want something honest now.
Even if it’s quieter. Even if it’s slower.
I want to wake up and know that I don’t have to fight for my worth today.
That I don’t have to hustle for belonging.
That I can simply be—messy, complicated, unsure—and still be loved.
That I can lay down my armor and not be punished for it.
Maybe that’s what growing up really is.
Not winning. Not impressing. Not conquering.
Maybe it’s learning to stay.
Learning to sit with your own heart and not flinch.
Learning to ask for help without shame.
Learning to love in ways that don’t demand perfection first.
And maybe it’s learning that the real trophy isn’t something you earn.
It’s something you find when you stop chasing and start noticing.
A hand that stays. A voice that says, “You don’t have to try so hard anymore.”
A presence that whispers, “Even now, even still, I’m here.”
So yeah.
All I know is that I spent a lot of years looking for something shiny.
And what I want now… isn’t shiny at all.
It’s soft. It’s quiet. It’s constant.
It’s tomorrow’s sky.
