I was walking through the city center last week, and I found myself noticing things I wouldn't have noticed five years ago. The way a restaurant's entrance was designed to make people feel welcome. The body language of a couple having a difficult conversation at a café. The small acts of kindness happening constantly—someone holding a door, a stranger helping another with directions, a parent being patient with a tired child.

There's someone I need to have a conversation with. I've needed to have it for six months. I know exactly what I need to say. I've rehearsed it in my head dozens of times—in the shower, on walks, lying awake at night. I've crafted the perfect opening, anticipated their responses, prepared my follow-ups. And I still haven't had the conversation.

I was at a coffee shop last week, watching an older man make his morning coffee with this kind of peaceful attention. Nothing dramatic or remarkable—just a person making coffee the way he probably makes it every morning. He wasn't checking his phone or rushing or thinking about what's next. He was just... there. Making coffee. Being a person on a Tuesday morning.

I published my first book last year. It was something I'd wanted for years—this tangible proof that I was a writer, that I had something to say worth saying, that I'd completed a real creative project. I imagined the moment endlessly. How it would feel to hold the physical book in my hands. The satisfaction of seeing my name on the cover.

There's a guy I used to work with who never gave me a single piece of advice. We weren't close—just colleagues who overlapped for about a year on a project. We'd exchange pleasantries in the hallway, sit in the same meetings, occasionally collaborate on documents. That was it. But I think about him constantly. Because watching the way he worked changed how I work.

I got a promotion last year, and something strange happened. The moment my boss told me, before I felt any actual emotion about the promotion itself, my brain immediately jumped to: "Wait until people hear about this." Not "I'm proud of this work." Not "This is an exciting opportunity." Just an instant calculation of how impressed people would be. People who?

I spent six months pretending I didn't know my apartment was too expensive for my budget. I'd look at my bank account and think "I should probably figure out my finances." I'd talk to friends about being "a bit tight on money lately." I'd wonder vaguely why I felt stressed about money when I had a decent job. I'd tell myself I needed to sit down and really analyze my spending patterns.