BUTTERFLIES

Handcuff yourself to Rock ‘n’ Roll, dreamin’ Hollywood dreams, protect your neck and save yourself, gatekeepin’ the peace, it’s how you cope, but now you’re chokin’ while you’re prayin’ for some discount Jesus Christ to come save you from yourself…

I went back and read some of my old posts today. Different dates. Different titles. Same exact feeling. Every single one of them—heavy. Exhausted. Trying to make sense of something that never really changes. I kept thinking I was getting somewhere. Processing. Moving forward. But reading them back? It’s the same story. Nothing’s changed. And I think that’s what finally got to me. Not in a sad way—in a what the hell am I doing? kind of way. Because how many times can you say the same thing before you realize you’re not stuck…you’re just repeating something you never questioned?

And that’s when it hit me… I’m running in a race I never signed up for.

Not just any race—a lifelong one. The kind where everyone else seems to know the route, the pace, the rules. Meanwhile, I showed up in thrifted running shoes, soles worn down, three sizes too big, tripping over myself just trying to keep up. I’m wheezing. Out of breath. Already behind. And people keep yelling, “Keep running!” I want to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. Or all of the above. Because I didn’t train for this. I didn’t fuel for this. I don’t even want to run.

Every time I slow down, someone hands me something else to carry. “While you’re running, can you take this too?” No water. No break. Just more weight. “Try harder. Do better.” For what? There’s no finish line. Or if there is, it keeps moving. Every time I think I’m getting close, it shifts just far enough ahead that I never actually arrive. So I just keep running. Tired. Sloppy. Falling short. Disappointing people without even trying to. And I don’t even know what finishing is supposed to look like anymore.

I’m surrounded by people who look like they belong here—steady stride, controlled breathing, purpose. Real runners. And then there’s me, somewhere between a 5K walk and a full-blown collapse, forced into a marathon I never agreed to. And the wildest part? I keep telling people, “I don’t belong here.” And they keep smiling like they’re reassuring me. “No, no—you’re fine. You belong.” But they’re not listening. I try to get someone—anyone’s—attention. I try to say it clearly this time: “I don’t want to do this.” And they wave me off. “You’re fine. Just keep running.”

At one point, I actually grab a cup of water. For a second, relief. Then someone smacks it out of my hand. I just stare at them in defeat… seriously?! And for a second, I think it’s about the water. Like that’s the problem. Like if I could just get a sip, I’d be fine. I’d keep going. But maybe that’s not it. Maybe I don’t need water. Maybe I need to stop running. Because I’ve had things knocked out of my hands before. Things I thought I needed. Things I worked for. Things I told myself I couldn’t lose. And when they were gone, after the shock, after the scramble to make sense of it, there was something else… Relief. Not because it didn’t matter. But because I didn’t have to keep forcing something that wasn’t right for me anymore. And honestly, I most likely would’ve kept going. Out of obligation. Out of habit. Out of fear of what might happen if I stopped.

I’m not a victim here. I’m just… in the wrong place. People comment on how badly I run. I know. I’m not a runner. “You can’t sit down.” Excuse me, but yes the fuck I can. Except, I never did. Because I’m pretty sure, way at the beginning of this race, fear was hardwired into my system and took over the whole operation.

Keep moving or something bad happens.

Keep going or you fall behind.

Keep running or you fail.

No autonomy. No trust in myself. Just noise.

I’ve been doing what everyone else does because that’s what I was told to want. And when I started realizing that maybe this isn’t quite right, the problem became me. Something must be wrong with you. But no. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just exhausted. Of course I am. I haven’t slept in three years. My brain doesn’t shut off. Responsibilities, ones that were never mine to carry alone, loop over and over and over again. There’s no quiet. No peace. Not even in the good moments, because I’m too drained to feel them fully.

No one did this to me. That would be easier, honestly. Cleaner. Someone to point to. Something to blame. But that’s not what this is. This is a script. One that gets handed to you so early, you don’t even realize you’re reading from it. You just start performing. Hitting your marks. Saying your lines. Running when everyone else runs. And for a lot of people, it works. They like the script. They thrive in it. They are runners. Good for them. I mean that. But what if I’m not?

What if I was never meant to run in the first place—I just got really good at convincing myself I was? What if the exhaustion isn’t because I’m failing, but because I’m forcing myself into something that doesn’t fit? That would explain a lot. Why everything feels heavy. Why I’m always tired, even when nothing looks bad on paper. Why the good moments never quite land the way they should. Because I’m not aligned. I’m just compliant. And that’s a hard thing to admit. Because if no one forced me, then I have to be the one to stop.

So the question isn’t “How do I keep up?” It’s: “What am I doing all of this for?” To be loved? So people won’t leave me? So people won’t judge me? They’re judging me anyway. So what is all of this actually buying me? And what happens if I just… stop?

Maybe I’m not a runner. Maybe I never was. And maybe the bravest thing I can do now is stop pretending that I am. I don’t know what comes next. There’s no map for this part. No guarantee that stopping leads to something better, or easier, or even clearer. It might be messy. It might be quiet. It might feel like standing still while everyone else keeps going. But at least it would be mine. Because if I’m going to spend my life doing something, it should matter to me. Not just look right. Not just sound right. Not just keep everyone else comfortable. Just unapologetically me. Drop the guilt. Drop the shame. And just exist.

And if I don’t want to run, then maybe I don’t have to. But what if I disappoint the people who matter to me? What if they were expecting me to cross that finish line? Yea, I could what if myself into anxiety again. Or what if they weren’t waiting for me at the finish line? They were standing on the sidelines, cheering me on. They were rooting for me to be myself. And maybe the real disappointment wouldn’t be stopping, it would be watching me keep going in something that was never authentically me. And if that’s true, then this, right here, this choice is enough.

For now, I’m going to sit my ass on the curb and catch my breath—apparently that’s allowed. As always, thanks for reading. I’m always here if you need me.

so what’s the point of holdin’ on when lettin’ go’s the only way you’re changin’? stop waitin’ for the grass to grow, catchin’ butterflies that ain’t worth chasin’…

Song name: BUTTERFLIES/ Artist: ALL TIME LOW/ Year: 2025