The space behind my collarbones is aching, that familiar pull of not enough, of needing to earn the air i breathe. Mara's text didn't… fix it exactly, but it didn't set off the usual panic either, it just… landed somewhere softer this time. almost felt like what i imagine pride should feel, not the grasping need but a warm thing that settles. maybe my worth isn't a balance sheet to be audited, maybe it's just… existing without the constant self-indictment. I used to think worthiness was a destination I could arrive at, a perfect score on a test I could study for. It's more like tending a garden, weeding out the self-doubt, watering the seeds of self-compassion, and accepting that some seasons will be more fruitful than others.