the art of falling apart

Whenever a period of transition arrives at my door, a storm of questions follows. Along with them comes the instinct to armor up, to prepare for battle—not against the world, but against the part of me that clings to identity, ego, neurosis. The inner critic, the judge—the part of me that would rather point fingers, project, and blame than sit with discomfort, with fear—fear of abandonment, fear of loss, fear of letting go. And when the armor is fully fastened, there it is: the impulse to run. Because to stay—to sit in the dread, to face the parts of myself I have deemed unlovable—is far harder.