As someone who understood her purpose long before she was ready to pursue it, I’ve been continually exposed to the act (or non-act) of waiting.
Throughout all this ‘waiting’ time, I’ve noticed how often it’s mistaken for stagnancy. The silent, weighted inaction where nothing moves, yet the stillness begins to ache.
Many times I’ve heard, from people both near and far, that I chose a career-oriented life, or that I chose to stay single for years, or that I chose to live in the city, or that I chose this or the other version of me.
The only choice I truly satellite my life around is contentment — being as close to happiness as I can in any given moment.
You don’t see what I chose independently and what I molded from the life I was handed. I might hope to build a family. Be a part working, part stay‑at‑home cool parent who knows every bit of neighborhood teenage drama, as half of them drift through her kitchen every day after school stealing baked goods and adult advice. (The other half doing the same on weekends.)
I might dream of creating a safe haven for people who can’t go back home when they long for harmony — who don’t know what it’s like to always have a bed they can peacefully fall asleep in. Who don’t set their goals on becoming world-famous athletes or globetrotters, but instead dream of a predictable life: safety in routine, a warm meal each day, and the ability to stay afloat without gasping for air.
Maybe I’m just self‑aware enough to know that to support others, I first need to create a strong, supportive world for myself. In a plane emergency, you secure your mask first before helping anyone else. Perhaps that’s been my path as friends launched families. Perhaps it’s why I ‘chose’ to be here now.
Then there’s the option of intentionally living like I’m twenty-five (even though I’m nearly thirty-five), with the only kid I’ll ever take responsibility for being the one on my Nirvana t-shirt.
Twist the plot the way it suits you.
Nevertheless, imagine the track’s blocked. So instead of staring at the obstacle like it owes you answers, you slip into the trees, follow a squirrel, and carve your own little footpath — landing in a place that doesn’t even exist on Google Maps. Bliss.
Keeping still in one area doesn’t mean you can’t take a detour; grow in other directions while waiting for the right moment ahead. One can walk without moving a limb — the left hand tucked in their pocket. The arm feels stagnant, the palm warm and comfy, and yet it’s still changing the coordinates.
If the dream of parenthood (whether real or Nevermind inspired) needs to sleep a while longer, I fill my days with the opportunities that won’t be as reachable later. Spontaneous travel. Intentional afternoons with my father — getting to know him anew now that we’re both adults. Writing whenever a thought needs release. Sleeping like a baby, savoring unrushed mornings. Practicing aunt-life, watching friends excel as caregivers. Learning, reading, imagining different future scenarios. Drawing boundaries. Then erasing them, and sketching new ones elsewhere. Opening up to adaptation. Figuring out who I am, and who I want to become. Because how else do we introduce a new person to themselves and to this world?
Maybe you dream of a full-time writing career but can’t yet leave your nine-to-five. Maybe you wish for a certain salary to live comfortably by your definition, but for now your time and energy lie elsewhere. Maybe what you want most is to be healthy, and that feels out of reach. That takes a hell of a lot of patience and adaptability. Or maybe—and that’s perfectly valid—you’re counting down the days until your (lovely, I’m sure) kids are grown and you can reclaim the carefree joy of couplehood. Whatever it is, it’s all about learning to wait without standing still.
Perhaps right now, the dream is the arm we’re not moving. Yet the whole body journeys on. We’ve got to keep going, folks. Push forward even when part of us stays put. Seize the day and quietly prepare for the ones ahead.
Life isn’t a race; the one who waits best wins.
Am I sad on occasion? Yes.
Would I reshape my life if I could? I don’t know.
Am I happy with the life I’ve crafted? Absolutely.
Do I lose my patience sometimes? Hell, yes.
And so I ask in that space between waiting and acting:
Can stillness nourish growth?
Can patience carry momentum?
What truly separates waiting from stalling?
Each question is a gentle reminder:
Stillness isn’t a traffic ban.
Waiting doesn’t have to equal wasting.
Sometimes the hardest work is feeling the ache. And then taking the next step. Finding our rhythm in keeping the left hand tucked in the pocket, walking. Still.
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