The Day I Stopped Saying ‘Maybe’

It started with a chair.

A plain, worn-out chair that had been sitting in the corner of my apartment for months. One of the legs was loose. The cushion had long since gone flat. It served mostly as a laundry collector—an unintentional monument to procrastination. Every time I passed it, I told myself I’d fix it.

“Maybe this weekend,” I’d say.

But I never did.

The truth is, I was never just talking about the chair.

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A Life of Maybes

Looking back, I can see that my life had slowly become a string of unfinished ideas, postponed dreams, and hollow promises I whispered to myself.

Maybe I’ll finally apply for that writing retreat.

Maybe I’ll start waking up earlier and actually build a morning routine.

Maybe I’ll text my old friend back—tomorrow.

Maybe now’s not the right time to change anything.

But the more I said “maybe,” the less I actually did. My life began to stall in a fog of indecision. I was moving through my days like a background character in my own story—constantly on the verge of transformation, but never quite making the leap.

“Maybe” became my security blanket. A soft, comforting lie that let me delay discomfort. After all, “maybe” doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t demand risk. It doesn’t hold you accountable.

But it also doesn’t move you forward.

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The Night Everything Went Quiet

Then came the storm.

It wasn’t metaphorical. A real one—sharp winds, relentless rain, thunder that rattled my apartment windows. Around 9:30 p.m., the power went out. Just like that. Total silence.

No phone screen. No Netflix hum. No distractions.

Just me. The storm. And that damn chair.

In that moment, something cracked open in me. With no noise to escape into, I started really thinking. About the chair. About my excuses. About how long I’d been living like this—in a suspended state of “almost.”

And then this sentence floated through my mind like a flare:

> “Maybe is the most beautiful way we lie to ourselves.”

It stopped me cold.

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The Decision

I got up and sat in the chair for the first time in months. It creaked beneath me. I sat there in the dark, staring at the wall, letting everything I’d been avoiding rush up at once.

That night, I made a choice—not a loud, dramatic one. I didn’t post about it. I didn’t journal it. I just decided, quietly and honestly:

No more maybes.

No more vague promises to myself. No more half-hearted attempts. No more waiting for some mythical moment of certainty. I was done using “maybe” as a disguise for fear.

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What Came Next

The next morning, I did something I had put off for two years. I called my father. We hadn’t talked properly since a fight that neither of us remembered how to resolve. The conversation was awkward. There were long pauses. But it was real. And it mattered.

Then I submitted a short story to a writing fellowship I had bookmarked a year ago. I didn’t win. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that I finally tried.

I also began walking every morning. Not running—just walking. No goals, no pace trackers. Just me, breathing in fresh air before the day had a chance to fill with noise and reasons not to show up for myself.

And yes—I finally fixed the chair. It's still a little wobbly, but now I sit in it to read every night. It’s no longer a symbol of my delay; it’s a marker of change.

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The Deeper Truth

Personal development isn’t a one-time overhaul. It doesn’t come wrapped in epiphanies or grand gestures. It’s not something you post about for likes or check off a list like a weekend errand.

It’s subtle. Quiet. Incredibly personal.

It’s the conversation you finally have.

The application you finally send.

The tiny walk you take when you’d rather lie down.

The chair you fix.

It’s not about becoming someone new. It’s about finally choosing to become the person you’ve been postponing.

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To the Reader

If you’re reading this and nodding—if you have your own version of the chair, your own echo chamber of “maybes”—I want you to know something:

> You’re not lazy. You’re not broken.

You’re just afraid—and that’s okay.

But fear can’t steer your life forever. You don’t need a perfect plan. You don’t need more time. You don’t even need to feel ready.

You just need to start.

Say “yes” or “no,” but stop living in “maybe.”

Choose discomfort over stagnation.

Choose motion, even if it’s clumsy.

That one small, honest step might be the most powerful decision you’ll ever make.

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Because you don’t build a meaningful life with “maybe.”

You build it with movement. With truth. With decisions.

And sometimes, it all begins with a chair.