Resignation to the stars

To Whom It May Celestially Concern,

Since my time of being “the star” (not the Hollywood kind, not the Instagram kind—the existential kind), I have had a motto instilled in me:

“Transcend. Vomit this loser out of me. Become the next big thing. Light myself on fire.”

Admittedly, it had a ring to it.

I clutched onto it like a woman holding a pearl necklace—tight, reverent, slightly desperate—like our solar system clinging to its carefully balanced rotations so nothing falls out of place. But if you complete the same orbit enough times, it no longer feels like magic. It feels like a chore. It drives you insane. You choose to follow the path laid out before you, only to become Pluto—a diligent member of the sky, only to be told you’re no longer large enough to be a planet.

And I refuse to accept that as a potential fate.

Which is why I’m writing you today to inform you: I’ve not reached burnout—no, this is bigger than that.

I’ve reached cosmological noncompliance.

I understand this may come as a shock. But during my time of holding constellations inside my ribcage and connecting my grief like well-formed star maps, I have heard every known quote about being a star whispered in my mind’s eye just to keep me moving forward.

Neil DeGrasse Tyson once told us—

“We share chemical components with supernovas.”

Writers compared our heartache to collapsing stars. Poets swore we were made of dust and bound to the universe, so every time we shine, we shed interstellar light.

But even with the greats on my side, I have to say it plainly:

I’m tired.

I’m tired of holding back tears so someone else could cry harder.

Tired of dimming myself to protect a fragile ego.

Because stars don’t get overwhelmed—they supernova.

And even that is still considered beautiful.

Well. Some of my supernovas haven’t been beautiful. They’ve looked like my sleeping in until 12:30 only to pretend I’m fully reforested and ready to work by 1:00. They’ve looked like playlists put on repeat with the song “Yellow” by Coldplay on it far too many times to be considered healthy. And others looked like my journaling so intensely (in a sauce stained sweatshirt..I may or may not have been trying to pass off as cosmic) I half believed I was writing scripture for the planets to answer.

I am done romanticizing my exhaustion.

Because this isn’t growth.It’s gravity.

And I am being pulled back down to Earth in my stained sweatshirt and choosing peace instead of perseverance to watch six episodes of a tv show I don’t even like.

I am not the North Star.

I am not the Big Dipper (or the little one).

I am not the sun.

I am the girl who takes 72 hours to text back and doesn’t feel bad about it.

I am a person who goes on vacation and spends too much time in her hotel room because I get an idea for a story instead of doing the tourist attractions because that’s what feels right that day.

I am a girl who enjoys being—not burning.

And maybe that’s enough.

When I first got this metaphorical position—when I was first called “a star”—I’ll admit, it felt flattering.My failures were planetary misalignments.My breakups, meteor showers.My spirals became spectacles.I believed I was always meant to rise—never rest. Believing you belong in a world that often makes you feel isolated has a sense of reverence to it in the same way looking up at the stars makes you feel small.

But feeling everything all at once doesn’t come with nearly enough PTO.

The hours are long.The expectations are as unreachable as a distant galaxy that may or may not even exist.And there are no snacks. (I’ve checked.)

I no longer want to be a lighthouse in a world that floods on schedule.I want to be driftwood.A good cup of tea.A candle that burns out just as its smell begins to fill the room.

So, effective immediately, I am resigning.

In filling this position, I have no doubt you will find many bushy-tailed replacements.But I urge you—please—consider increasing the benefits.And warn the others what it truly means to think every decision you make is weighed against a cosmic scale, alongside stars light-years away who are likely thinking the same thing… and who may very well have already turned to dust.

I release myself from being your metaphor.I release myself from the burden of shining when I’d rather just glow faintly from a distance.

Because if I do get recognition for my hard work or future feats, I want to claim the entirety of the accomplishment.

I did not get to where I am because my atoms resemble those of stars.

I got to where I am because I am incredibly human—and I am working with myself to understand that whatever I feel that day… is more than enough.

Sincerely,

A Former Star

(Currently: Just dust—and fine with that)