There’s a graveyard in every neurospicy brain. It’s quiet, cobwebbed, and full of half-finished hobbies, abandoned identities, and the ghosts of hyperfixations past. Insert spooky oOoOoOo here
Baking. Guitar. Spanish. Bullet journaling. My first Mental Health blog. Each one started with fire. A passion that burned so bright I would talk about it with every single person I spoke to, researched as much as I could then thought I could monetize it. But inevitably, each one ended with executive dysfunction. And every tombstone says the same thing: “You could’ve been great at this.”
But here’s the truth we don’t hear enough: You don’t owe your past selves a resurrection. You don’t owe your burnout an apology. You don’t owe your grief a productivity arc. You don’t owe anyone ANYTHING. Fuck it.
Some things were beautiful for a season. Some things popped into our lives for a reason. Some things were dopamine-fueled chaos that gave you something to hold onto when everything else felt like dust.
And then they stopped working. Again. And that’s not a failure in my book. That’s change.
Let it rot. Let it rest. Let it be a tombstone in the graveyard of your becoming.
You’re allowed to outgrow things. You’re allowed to mourn them and move on. You’re allowed to be a different person now than you were a day ago. Who the fuck cares?
No guilt. No shame. Just compost and cobwebs.
Yours truly,
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