What Would She Do?

I’m not one to call myself an anxious person, but lately, anxiety has been clawing its way into my chest. It’s the kind that creeps in quietly, catching you off guard in moments you think you should feel fine. It started on a Thursday, hours before the sky broke open in a relentless downpour.

By the time the rain had eased, I was knee-deep in a crisis—literally. My bedroom had become a shallow, wading pool of rainwater. With every splash of my feet, I scrambled to save what I could, heaving books, clothes, and my dresser onto my bed, all while muttering to myself like a mantra: “Life is happening for me, not to me.” It was either that or brea

When I left for a lunch date I couldn’t cancel, the water was still there. When I returned, it had begun to recede, as if embarrassed by its intrusion. St

Now, I sleep in a strange arrangement where one half of my bed belongs to me, and the other half is dominated by my dresser. My comforter is pinned underneath its weight, so I sleep beneath a corner of it, curled like a cat. My wet laundry hangs on every available surface because the dryer decided to quit on me when I needed it most. The windows drip condensation, fogging up like they’re hiding something. And the mold—ugh, the mold—has started its quiet conquest of the window sills.

It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. But still, the disorder has seeped into my mind.

The anxiety doesn’t come from the flood alone. There’s plenty to choose from: the mold, the impending move I’ve been putting off for months, or even the way my gut twists with a strange sense of intuition I don’t fully understand.

What I do understand is that my life—this chaotic, imperfect mess—is a reflection of the choices I’ve made. That realization alone is enough to make me want to crawl back under my half-comforter and wait for the world to calm down. Because if my reality is my creation, then I am responsible for fixing it.

It’s not the rain’s fault. Sure, the weather is out of my control, but this house has flooded before, in other rooms. I ignored the signs. I told myself, “It won’t happen to me,” until it did. And now I’m here, wondering if it’s time to leave for good or to stay and accept that sometimes the rain comes, but it doesn’t last forever.

But that’s life, isn’t it? A series of decisions—some small, some so monumental they feel like they’ll swallow you whole. Even when you decide to do nothing, that’s still a decision.

The truth is, I’ve been avoiding making a decision because fear whispers that either choice could be wrong. If I move, I might end up somewhere worse, somewhere farther from the life I want. If I stay, I risk drowning in the familiar, in my comfort zone that isn’t really all that co

I know that fear-based decisions rarely lead to growth. But knowing and doing are two different

So, I try something new. Instead of spiraling in indecision, I close my eyes and imagine her—the version of me who has it all figured out. She’s not perfect, but she’s steady. She knows what she wants, and she doesn’t hesitate why

I see her walking through her days with confidence, her life a reflection of every deliberate choice she’s made. She wakes up in a bedroom that feels like a sanctuary, not a disaster zone. She dresses with care, eats meals that nourish her, and moves through her routines like they’re small acts of worship. She’s not weighed down by fear because she trusts herself to make the right decisions, one step at a

Why

It’s a question I start asking myself in the small moments, like when I’m getting dressed or deciding whether to cook a proper meal or order takeout. It’s not about perfection—it’s about alignment. I know that every choice, no matter how small, adds up. So I try to choose what she would ch

She wouldn’t leave wet laundry hanging for days. She’d take a deep breath, clear the chaos, and find a laundromat. She wouldn’t ignore the creeping mold, hoping it would go away. She’d wipe it clea

She wouldn’t

The truth is

May

When I don’t have an answer, I sit with the question. Not to overthink it, but to feel my way through it. Meditation helps. Quiet moments in the chaos help. I let myself imagine the life I want, and then I ask myself: What would she do?

I don’t have to figure it all out at once. Life isn’t a single, grand decision—it’s a million little ones, made in the present moment. So I take it one step at a time. I let go of decisions rooted in fear, and I choose courage, even if it’s small at f

Someday, I’ll be her—the version of me I see in my mind. Maybe I already am, in the choices I make tod

Until then, I’ll keep asking: What would she do?