Losing yourself

Somewhere along the way, I lost myself.

Maybe I’ve known it for a while. Maybe I’ve just worked hard not to look at it too closely.

It’s Thursday morning. I’m staring into a cup of coffee while lo-fi jazz drifts through the room, and somehow even the music feels at odds with the noise in my head. My mind has been stuck in it for weeks.

How in the world did I get here?

You’d think I’d be used to it by now. The emotional chaos. The way my brain can turn life into a tangled mess. There have always been more questions than answers, but this feels different.

I have the time I always wanted. Opportunities. Room to breathe. At least that’s what I thought.

But the coffee is getting cold, and I’m starting to realize it isn’t the brew that tastes burned out.
It’s me.

Here I am, choking on the hours and dragging myself through the days, and deep down I know this can’t be right.

I’ve been the circus pony. I’ve done my time pulling the carousel. I’ve smiled, performed, played the clown. I’ve kept moving, rain or shine, even when the ride was anything but easy.

I’ve been the war horse, too. I’ve carried the weight and walked the trenches. I’ve seen the carnage, felt the fear, taken the hits. I could probably name every battle by the scar it left behind.

But I’m still here.
I survived.

So where is hope when you need it?
Where is your purpose when you go looking?

I know it’s out there. Somewhere just beyond this version of me. Somewhere around the corner. Somewhere ahead.

And I know this much:

I’m not staying here.

I’m starting the journey toward the life I need. The life I want. The life that feels like mine again.

Because somewhere along the way, I lost myself.