Sometimes, no matter how put together I feel, I still make the wrong choice. It’s frustrating to admit, especially when I’ve done so much work to know myself better. One of those choices caught up with me last night and turned into hours of staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet, and wishing my mind would slow down and turn off so I could sleep. It did not. I instead spent a lot of time in tears, not for myself but for the fact that I've realistically hurt someone.  I often go back and forth on how much of my life belongs on the page. Writing has always been where I untangle things - where the questions make a little more sense and the noise softens just enough to breathe. But there’s a vulnerability that comes with sharing real moments, the kind that aren’t neatly resolved or wrapped in clarity yet. Sometimes I wonder if it’s easier to stay silent, to keep the mess to myself. Last night, though, there was no ignoring it. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. The ...