Me, Me Life & Why Part 23

Part 23

It’s 2:14pm on a Tuesday and I’m eating leftover curry straight from the pan.

I’m wearing leggings that have never seen a gym and a hoodie that’s technically Alex’s but spiritually mine. The flat is messy, not gross, just… gently chaotic. There are clean dishes I haven’t put away and a stack of books acting as a makeshift side table. One of them is upside down. None of them are finished.

And here’s the wild part:

I feel good.

Not amazing. Not radiant. Not “living my best life” in an influencer caption sort of way.

Just… steady. Like I know where my limbs are.

It’s a weird kind of peace. Not the kind I was raised to chase.

Growing up, I thought the goal was a “successful life.” A structured job. A mortgage. Weekends at IKEA and a dog with an Instagram account. Matching towels and conversations about pension options.

I tried to want that.

I really did.

There were moments when I convinced myself it was what I needed. I’d sit at my desk job, highlighting tasks and pretending that productivity equalled purpose. I’d show up to birthdays, weddings, baby showers, performing adulthood like I’d memorised the lines but never rehearsed the tone.

And yet, there was always this quiet ache. A sense that I’d RSVP’d to the wrong life.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want meaning. I just didn’t want it packaged in the traditional wrapping.

I didn’t want to spend every day dragging myself toward someone else’s version of “put together.”

Now?

I sleep when I’m tired.

Work in sprints, not schedules.

Spend full days chasing ideas that don’t pay, but light something in me.

And no one claps for it.

There’s no milestone badge for “did three tasks out of twelve and didn’t spiral.”

No applause for “refused a shiny job offer that felt like a cage.”

No certificate for “finally stopped hating myself for being inconsistent.”

But the thing is: I’m building something.

Slowly. Haphazardly. Quietly.

A life that doesn’t revolve around performance metrics or gold stars.

One where I don’t wake up to an alarm I resent.

Where my rhythms are mine.

It’s not perfect.

There are days I forget to eat until 4pm, and others where I deep-clean the fridge at midnight because my brain said now.

I still lose socks.

Still forget passwords.

Still talk over people sometimes and then replay it for hours in my head.

But I also laugh more.

I text less but mean it more when I do.

I’ve stopped apologising for needing space, or taking up space.

And somewhere in all of that, I realised:

I don’t want the life I was taught to want.

I don’t want to scale ladders I didn’t build.

I don’t want to sacrifice joy for consistency.

I don’t want to be praised for pushing through when I should’ve paused.

I want this.

Weird, inconsistent, wonderfully mismatched days.

A partner who doesn’t ask for a script.

Friends who don’t care if I cancel.

A home that feels lived in, not staged.

There’s a version of me I was supposed to be by now.

She would’ve had a skincare routine and a five-year plan and a walk-in wardrobe.

I used to mourn her.

Now I barely remember her.

The person I’ve become?

She’s not tidy.

She’s not always on time.

But she’s awake.

Fully, terrifyingly awake.

And if this is what failure looks like, I’ll take it.