To the Dreamer and the Tired One

There are two voices that live inside me.

One is loud and luminous — a dreamer who imagines sun-drenched studios with skylights wide open, a life wrapped in deep, soul-shaking love, a body that feels like home, and work that doesn’t just pay the bills but sets something divine on fire inside me. This part of me sees possibility in everything. It wants to create soft spaces where struggle is transformed into art, where survival isn’t the first priority but self-discovery is. It believes in beauty — not just as an aesthetic, but as a birthright.

Then there’s the other voice. It’s quieter. Heavier. It doesn’t chase anything. It lingers. It sighs. This part of me has seen what it costs to dream. It’s lived through the heartbreak of trying. Of giving everything. Of watching the door close anyway. It whispers gently, “Can’t we just rest for a while?”

When I slow down enough to listen, I can feel both of them — the dreamer and the tired one — sitting in the same room. Not fighting, just coexisting in the stillness. The dreamer worries that if I listen too long to the tired one, I’ll get stuck. That I’ll never become the version of myself I’ve held onto for so long — the bold one, the thriving one, the version that lives fully and loudly, who dances barefoot and drinks from the deep well of purpose. That dreamer isn’t selfish. It’s protective. It guards the pieces of me that were left to figure it out alone. It wants to create a future where people like me — people who’ve felt unseen, othered, tender and brave all at once — get to feel safe being alive.

But the tired one isn’t weak. It’s wise. It remembers the cost of becoming. It worries that chasing dreams will leave me hollow, exhausted, or worse — ordinary. That I’ll pour all of my brilliance into the world and still be missed. Overlooked. It doesn’t long for recognition or achievement. It longs for softness. For peace. To be held without needing to earn it. To be loved not for what I build, but for who I already am.

It remembers rare, sacred moments where safety wasn’t a dream — but real. Tangible. Like a late-night movie on the couch with someone who made me feel known. Like the rush of landing a job right before the world shut down. Moments where it didn’t feel like I had to fight so hard to just exist.

Mostly, though, it remembers surviving. Scrambling. Learning how to hold myself together in a world that didn’t offer a net. It knows what it means to be alert even while resting. It knows how to scan a room for safety before exhaling. It’s been on the frontlines, quietly keeping me alive.

And here’s what I’m learning now — neither voice is wrong.

The dreamer gives me direction. The tired one reminds me to pause. Both are rooted in love. Both want to protect me. They just speak in different tones. And the more I resist one or the other, the more fractured I feel. It’s not about choosing. It’s about listening. Integrating. Learning how to hold space for both at the same time.

I can chase the vision and rest. I can work hard and need softness. I can dream big and give myself permission to cry on the floor at midnight. These aren’t contradictions — they’re truths in harmony.

So this is where I begin again.

No more numbing. No more pretending I don’t care just to stay safe. No more drugs. No alcohol. Just me — raw, honest, trying. With celery juice and blog drafts and kitchen sinks cleaned like altars. With playlists that make me feel something and a cat who curls into my side like a heartbeat.

I’m not waiting for perfection. I’m learning how to live inside this moment — imperfect and sacred. I’m showing up. For the dreamer. For the tired one. For the person I’m becoming who doesn’t have to shrink to feel safe anymore.

Maybe — just maybe — I can build a life where I don’t have to choose between greatness and gentleness.

Maybe this is the timeline.

The right one.

And maybe, finally, I get to want it all.