Sometimes there is peace in imbalance. I write these words on the page and try to breathe deeply, try to force my mind to acknowledge the truth in that simple statement. That line speaks deeply to me. It speaks deeply because these are the words I try to fight, the words I pretend are wrong, even though I’ve seen, time and time again, how freeing the unknown can be.
I’ve always been a person of order. I want the world to make sense. I want to hold love in the palm of my hand. I want the one I care for to understand the inner-workings of my mind. I want to have a plan.
I’ve been told over and over by men I’ve loved that there are some things you simply cannot prepare for, things you cannot write and record and make sense of in a concrete way. I’ve been encouraged to let go, to let things be. But even when I lean my head back and soak in the sun’s rays, even when I step forward into love, even when I trust the process, I’m still left wondering if there’s something more I can do.
I can release—but only for a moment. Then I want to grab the wheel again and direct myself onto a road that I can visibly navigate.
And maybe it’s about control. Maybe it’s because so much of my life felt like it was already decided before I began. Maybe it’s because I’ve been struggling with the demons in my head that continually tell me I’m not enough, will never be enough, no matter how hard I try.
Or maybe it’s the simple fact that when I prepare myself, I feel ready. So that when everything falls apart, at least I know I did all I could.
The other day I went to coffee with a friend. We sat face-to-face with the sun floating through the clouds and maybe it was the chilly morning air, maybe it was the soft hum of the radio in the background, maybe it was the way our drinks tasted, or something in the space between us that encouraged vulnerability—but there we were, just strangers sharing the entirety of our hearts.
And in listening to him talk and finding myself responding back with my own stories, my own fears, my own inner turmoil I realized something.
I realized life is not about knowing every single thing. It’s about being in pursuit of the answers. It’s about accepting what is still left to be understood. It is about fighting, existing, becoming—every single breath.
Sometimes there is peace in imbalance. After we talked, I scribbled that line in my notebook. It was something I wanted to remember, something I wanted to take away. We had lost track of time, minutes becoming hours, becoming coffee and lunch, becoming both a knot that unloosened between us and a thread that was holding us so beautifully close.
And I found myself marveling at the wonder of being human—how we tie ourselves to one another, how we love, how we become one—and damn, how incredible that is.
After he left, the coffee shop felt almost empty. I scribbled in my notebook, rushed to answer emails, continued about the craziness of my day. But always thinking about what he said, about what our conversation meant, about the way we sometimes discover who we truly are in the middle of a mess.
Sometimes it’s not the perfectly, orderly moments of life that shape us, but the wild, unorganized chaos that breaks us, builds us, then brings us peace.
And I sat at that little table a moment longer, forcing myself to acknowledge the dissonance between my beating heart and the busyness of my life, between the inner desire to be slow and patient, and the world’s pressure to be and do every little thing.
It’s amazing, to me, how much I long for everything to make sense, for love to be understood, for my future to be paved—but if I really think about the moments that have defined me, the way I have turned into the woman I am—it was never about the plan, the order, the organization.
It was always about the imbalance.
And so I repeat those words to myself today—as I rush but still feel behind, as I think but also want to shut off my mind, as I run but also try to stand still—there is peace in imbalance.
And even in the unknown, uncharted, undiscovered—I will find my way.