I’m reaching a deeper sense of peace. It’s like slipping farther beneath the surface of water—colder, darker, a chill wrapping around you. There’s a thrill to it, but it’s also unsettling. Unsettling because I start judging myself for having the experience at all: You’re faking it. You’re putting on a show. And just like that, I shoot back up to the surface.
But the part of me that loves it—the looseness in my body, the quiet magic of it—refuses to accept any other way of being.
Will it last? my insecurity asks, cackling, a smoky voice quick on the draw. The doubt is sharp. But still, I keep reaching for beauty.
A newer artist on social media posted her work: a golden-framed portrait of a woman with four books stacked on her head, a peach-colored floral wreath, and baby’s breath circling her crown. Her high-neck black blouse had a peach ruffle at the collar; her eyes were closed, black strands of hair catching silvery light as they fell loosely to her shoulders. Behind her, a stormy blue haze softened the background.
I left a comment—a Hail Mary—saying I’d love to have it. She replied: it had already sold. But if I lived locally, she could paint another.
I don’t. But I Googled her location anyway. Four hours and fifteen minutes. Nothing, really. Especially if I pair it with a walk on the boardwalks at Congaree National Park or whatever other wonders the trip unfolds.
I keep reaching for things that fill my life’s canvas with joy—while also cutting down on the things that don’t.
One thing I’m learning to cut: scrutinizing my own words in sessions, replaying specific sentences under the guise of “improvement.” It doesn’t make me better; it just leaves me feeling off. So I’m stopping.
Will this peace hold? Probably I’m asking because I want it to. I want this steady, concrete peacefulness to last. Part of me believes it can—if I stay diligent, keep up my discipline, and make my wellbeing a non-negotiable.
Forever.
Going On 40 