When I Stopped Explaining Myself

I was thirty, and tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Not exhausted. Not burnt out.
Just quietly worn from too many years of trying to be legible.

I lived alone then, in a top-floor apartment with slanted ceilings and a window that caught exactly one hour of afternoon sun. If I placed the chair just right, I could sit in that warm square of light like a plant, not thinking, not speaking—just existing, gently.

Most evenings I’d make dinner without ceremony. Miso soup. Cold rice. Maybe an egg. I’d eat slowly, not because I had the time, but because I no longer felt the need to rush through the parts of life that didn’t need to impress anyone.

That year, I stopped giving long answers.
When people asked how I was, I said, “I’m okay.”
And let it be true without needing to prove or explain it.
I stopped trying to be profound in conversations.
I said “I don’t know” when I didn’t.
I let pauses stretch a little longer than comfortable,
and found that they held more honesty than words ever did.

—

The Quiet Power of Not Performing

At thirty, I realized how much of my twenties were spent performing clarity.
Sounding certain when I was unsure.
Sounding fine when I was fractured.
Sounding busy, because being still made me feel disposable.

But turning thirty felt like a soft undoing.
Like gently unraveling a knot I didn’t know I was tied into.

It wasn’t a revelation.
It was a slow exhale.
A quiet return to the parts of myself I’d set aside to seem more useful, more likable, more productive.

And I understood—
you don’t need to prove your softness is sharp.
You don’t need to defend your peace.
You don’t need to be understood by everyone to feel whole.

—

Wabi-Sabi in the Letting Go

Wabi-sabi teaches us that beauty isn’t in perfection.
It’s in what survives without shouting.
It’s in what lingers after you’ve stopped trying to make it stay.

It reminds us:

• Clarity doesn’t always come with answers. Sometimes it’s just the noise falling away.
• Not all growth is visible. Some happens in the way you no longer chase what used to hurt.
• Letting go of needing to be impressive is one of the most impressive things you can do.
• There’s strength in saying less—and meaning more.

—

Now, when I sit in that same chair, in that square of afternoon sun,
I don’t think about who I used to be.
I don’t try to write the perfect sentence.
I don’t check if the world is still paying attention.

I just sit.
Quietly.
Fully.
Here.

And in that moment—
I am not unfinished.
I am not behind.
I am not too late or too much or too uncertain.

I am simply thirty.
And finally,
I do not need to explain myself to feel real.