There’s a strange moment in adulthood when you realize that belonging is no longer something you chase; it’s something you choose. But only after you’ve lived through enough rooms where you were tolerated at best, misunderstood at worst, and miscast somewhere in between.

There’s a particular kind of surrender that doesn’t feel like giving up, but it also doesn’t feel like determination. It feels like… floatation. Like a leaf that finally falls into the water.

I stopped chasing happiness like it was proof of healing. What I wanted—what I always needed—was peace. This is how I finally learned the difference.

Somewhere along the way, we started ranking pain. “At least it wasn’t as bad as…” “That’s nothing compared to what I went through.” “Other people have it worse.” We started treating healing like a competition: Who has the most significant trauma? Who’s the most self-aware? Who cries the hardest in the group? But healing doesn’t work like that. It isn’t scored. It isn’t performative. It’s not something you can “win.” It’s yoga. It’s your mat. It’s your breath. Nobody else is i