I Keep Editing This Sentence Because I Don’t Want to Admit What I Know

I keep editing this sentence because if I say it cleanly, I lose plausible deniability. And I like my deniability. It lets me pretend I’m confused instead of resistant, tired instead of afraid, thoughtful instead of stuck.

Words are easy to rearrange. Decisions aren’t.

From the outside, nothing looks wrong enough to justify this feeling. That’s the problem. There’s no obvious disaster to point to. No clean villain. Just a low-grade dissatisfaction humming under everything I do, like background noise I’ve trained myself to ignore because acknowledging it would require a response.

I’ve gotten very good at seeming fine. Fine is efficient. Fine ends conversations. Fine keeps people from asking questions I don’t want to answer, mostly because I don’t have answers that sound respectable.

Inside, though, the monologue doesn’t shut up. It’s not dramatic. It’s persistent. A running list of half-finished thoughts and quiet doubts that show up when I’m brushing my teeth, answering emails, trying to fall asleep.

You should be further along by now.

This isn’t what you imagined.

Why does everyone else look so certain?

I tell myself I’m overthinking. That’s the polite way to dismiss discomfort without actually dealing with it. Overthinking sounds fixable. Like the problem is excess thought, not inconvenient truth. If I were honest, I’d admit I’m not overthinking—I’m avoiding the conclusion.

Gratitude gets weaponized here. I remind myself of everything that’s “going well.” As if appreciation cancels dissatisfaction. As if wanting more clarity, meaning, or alignment is an insult to what already exists. Gratitude is important, sure, but it’s not supposed to silence you. When it does, it turns into self-gaslighting.

I scroll when I don’t want to sit with myself. It’s automatic now. Thumb moving before intention forms. Everyone else’s curated lives flicker past—confidence, milestones, progress neatly packaged into captions. I don’t believe the highlight reel, but belief isn’t required for comparison to work. It still lands. It still leaves residue.

Somewhere along the way, I became someone who hesitates more than I act. I didn’t notice it happening. It wasn’t a dramatic shift. Just a series of small compromises that felt reasonable at the time. Safer. Smarter. Easier to explain.

Now I’m standing in the aftermath of those choices, wondering when “temporary” became default.

There are things I don’t say because they complicate the version of me people recognize. Admitting uncertainty ruins the illusion of competence. Admitting dissatisfaction invites opinions I didn’t ask for. So I edit. I soften. I translate sharp truths into acceptable language and then feel annoyed when no one seems to understand me.

That part’s on me.

I keep waiting for a future version of myself to show up and take control. Someone decisive. Someone who knows what they want and isn’t embarrassed by it. I imagine them looking back at this moment like a rough draft—necessary, but behind them.

Here’s the sharper thought I keep dodging:

What if no one is coming?

What if clarity isn’t something you arrive at, but something you choose, knowing it’ll cost you comfort, approval, or the story you’ve been telling yourself?

That’s usually when I go back to editing. Back to small, cosmetic changes that create the illusion of movement. Adjusting language. Adjusting routines. Adjusting expectations downward so disappointment feels more manageable. None of it addresses the actual tension—the gap between the life I’m living and the one I quietly measure it against.

There’s grief in that gap. Not loud grief. The subtle kind that doesn’t announce itself, just drains energy over time. Grief for momentum lost. For instincts ignored. For the version of me who used to trust their own discomfort as a signal instead of a nuisance.

I don’t have a resolution. Anyone who claims they do is either selling something or lying. What I have is a growing suspicion that the discomfort isn’t the enemy. That the volume isn’t a malfunction. That maybe the reason this truth feels loud is because it’s been ignored for a long time.

I’m still editing this sentence. But not to make it quieter.

I’m editing it to see how much honesty I can stand.

still breathing.