John R. Miles

Until one day you realize the space inside you feels smaller than it used to.

When we carry things that have outlived their purpose, we don't just hold on to the past.

We hold on to a version of ourselves that no longer fits.

And that version has rules, expectations.

Limits, it insists we still obey.

So we keep apologizing for taking up space.

We keep waiting for permission to rest.

We keep measuring our worth by how useful we are, how productive, how unflinching.

We keep believing that if we soften even a little, something will break.

And slowly, the life we're actually living starts to feel like a rehearsal instead of the real thing.

Relationships feel at first.

We show up, but part of us is still guarding something old, a hurt we haven't released, a story we haven't unwritten, a fear we haven't laid down.

That guardedness creates distance, even when we're in the same room.

Conversations stay surface level.

Laughter feels a little forced.

Presence, the kind I talked about last week in episode 705, becomes harder to offer because part of us

is still holding something heavy.

We feel it in our bodies too.

The tightness in the chest that never really fully relaxes.

The shoulders that stay up even when there's no threat.