paying attention

to the patterns we repeat, the choices we make, and the courage it takes to see ourselves clearly

I’ve been thinking about how often we stay in places long after we know we’ve outgrown them. A job that drains us. A dream we keep postponing because it feels impractical or indulgent. How we tell ourselves we’ll make the move later, when things feel more certain, more stable, more permissible. Only to wake up one day and realize how many years have gone by.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about the relational world and about this nagging sense that something is off in the way we relate to one another. You can feel it in how we move toward situations we would never encourage a friend to stay in, lingering with people who drain us, dismiss us, or offer love with conditions attached. And you can feel it too, (or at least I have), in how we hesitate at the edge of something that might actually ask more of us than we’re used to giving.

There’s something humbling inside that tension. I don’t think it’s a lesson we learn once and then graduate from. It seems to circle back, again and again, asking us to look more honestly at what we’re willing to give and what we’re willing to accept. At how often we override ourselves in the name of connection. At how long it can take to realize that our time and attention are not endless resources. Sometimes we only notice after we’re tired and worn thin. Sometimes after we’ve stayed too long. Sometimes only when walking away finally feels less painful than staying.

This got me pondering about dissatisfaction and why it feels so ever-present. We talk a lot about freedom, but rarely about the forms that actually make freedom possible. We want openness and possibility, yet without discipline and routine, nothing has much of a chance to take shape. Most of us inhabit the space in between where we resist being boxed in while also craving something comforting and solid enough to lean on. I don’t think that contradiction means something is wrong with us. I think it means we’re human.

Then there’s play. The moments that interrupt our seriousness. The brief returns to wonder and surprise that remind us why we’re here in the first place. As far as I’m concerned, structure isn’t the problem. It’s what happens when we disappear inside it and lose our sense of creativity and aliveness.

Let’s be honest, none of us really knows what we’re doing. That’s not a confession so much as a fact. We learn by trying, we love by risking, we create by staying with what doesn’t immediately make sense. We inherit ideas about success, love, beauty, and worth from systems that were never designed with our wholeness and humanity in mind. No wonder so many of us feel disconnected. No wonder so many of us are exhausted and willing to give up our agency to technology. In our longing to feel less alone, we reach for tools that promise connection while slowly dulling our capacity for it. We scroll and look for ways to keep ourselves occupied. Beneath all of that, are patterns we don’t always want to see. Old strategies that once kept us safe. Wounds that taught us how to survive, but not necessarily how to stay open and curious so that we can become more self-actualized and grow.

The work, if there is any, isn’t about fixing ourselves or arriving at some cleaner iteration of who we think we should be. It’s about a willingness to look at what keeps repeating. To sit with what’s uncomfortable without rushing to resolve it. To ask where we learned to disappear, to overextend, to settle, or to stay guarded. And be willing to be with the questions long enough until something honest has a chance to reveal itself.

There’s no neat ending here, friend. Just an invitation or reminder if you will, to pay attention. To notice where you’re bracing. Where you’re reaching. Where you’re still contorting yourself, hoping someone else will give you permission to be exactly who you are. How much more time do you want to spend on that hamster wheel?

Maybe that attention, uncomfortable as it can be, is where things begin to shift. That is my hope for you, for all of us.

© Alana Foy 2025