Life Unfolds in Moments of Choice

l don’t often call myself a worrier, but a low hum of restlessness has taken hold. It started one early dawn, just before a long-awaited sunrise. I stood by my window, breathing in the quiet when a loud crash echoed from the kitchen. It was the water heater. Pipes burst, and the floors were awash in seconds. I scrambled, piling up towels, moving anything that might soak, muttering to myself, “this, too, is a part of the process.” After what felt like hours, I managed to stop the flood. By late morning, I left for work, feeling a strange clarity beneath the chaos.

As the cleanup stretches on, I’m living in a half-packed, half-salvaged space. I’ve moved half my books to the top shelves. The stack of papers on my desk leans dangerously close to toppling. The air is thick with the lingering scent of damp carpet. It’s uncomfortable and a bit suffocating, like my own space is becoming foreign to me.

It’s this unsettling environment, among other things, that might be tugging at my nerves. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the water, the decision looming over me to stay or move, the unsettled dust and dirt everywhere. Or maybe it’s more—something just beneath the surface.

What strikes me, though, is the realization that I chose this. My life feels like a collection of choices, some careful, some hurried, each leading me to here. I chose this apartment knowing its quirks, choosing not to worry when small leaks happened before. All along, I made choices to stay, to settle, to overlook, and now I’m feeling the weight of those decisions.

Do I stay, leaning into the unpredictability, or go in search of a place that might be more secure, but farther from the parts of the city I love? The question feels as clear now as it did then.

Reality, in so many ways, is just my choices stacked up. Choices to engage, choices to avoid. Even choosing to ignore something small is a choice that builds toward something bigger. I decide, every day, what I’ll carry forward and what I’ll leave behind.

Sometimes, in the absence of clear answers, I let things slide by because the choice feels too big. Other times, it’s easier to lean into what’s familiar, even if it’s holding me back.

But in this moment, I’m beginning to understand that my present is a reflection of the paths I’ve taken. This scattered, half-wet reality is mine, and I can make peace with it if I choose. I am not trapped; I am building with every moment that I decide to stay or go, to act or let things be. My reality is mine, not perfect, but real.

Lately, I’ve been picturing someone else in this life—an image of myself, clearer, unafraid, breathing easily, someone who lives without hesitation. What would that version of me do, I wonder? When I pick up my things, when I walk out the door, when I hold back from diving into my next chapter, I ask: *What would she do?*

I don’t need to know exactly where I’m going. But when I make these small choices, one at a time, I try to check in with that version of me, the me who knows what she wants, and I try to follow. I don’t have it all planned out yet, and that’s okay. All I need is one choice at a time, stepping into the unknown, trusting that each step forward brings me closer to a life I want to call my own.