Balance.
Such a simple word, yet for the longest time, it felt like an impossible dream.
I thought balance meant having it all together—perfect moods, steady routines, no breakdowns, no extremes. But that kind of balance was just another lie wrapped in expectation.
The balance I’ve found doesn’t look like perfection. It looks like permission.
Permission to rest.
Permission to feel.
Permission to not always know what I need.
Permission to begin again, even after falling apart.
It’s waking up and checking in with myself—honestly. It’s catching the signs earlier, asking for help sooner, forgiving myself faster. It’s knowing the difference between a bad moment and a bad life.
It’s having systems in place—therapy, medication, support—but also space for softness, for spontaneity, for grace.
Some days I still feel like I’m walking a tightrope. But now, I know I can fall and not shatter. I know the ground will hold me. I know I will hold me.
Balance isn’t a fixed state—it’s a living, breathing relationship with myself.
And maybe that’s the most beautiful part.
Because for so long, I didn’t think I’d get here.
But I did.
And I’m still here.
Still healing.
Still dancing.
Still screaming into the silence—
and finally, being heard.
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