In the Muddle

A poem; written by my higher self to my confused self.

There are days when nothing fits.

When the old maps don’t work, and the new ones haven’t arrived.

When the words don’t come, or worse—when they do, but none of them feel true.

When every choice feels heavy, and every direction feels like a maybe.

Confusion isn’t just a fog.

It’s a full-body ache.

A silence that buzzes.

A mind that spirals through shoulds and what-ifs, asking questions that don’t seem to have answers:

What am I doing?
Is this the right thing?
What if I’m wrong?
What if I’ve always been wrong?

It makes you question your past, your instincts, even your truth.

It makes you doubt your gut.

It makes you feel like a stranger to your own knowing.

And yet—confusion is not the enemy.

It’s the hallway between chapters.

The space between the inhale and the exhale.

A sacred pause before the next becoming.

It’s not comfortable. Gosh, no.

But maybe that’s the point.

It’s the soul’s way of stripping away what no longer fits

—even if we still wish it did.

Sometimes clarity doesn’t arrive as a lightning bolt.

Sometimes it trickles in through the cracks you swore would break you.

So if you’re in the muddle—stay soft.

Let the questions live without rushing the answers.

Let the not-knowing be enough, just for now.

You are not lost.

You are in between.

And between is holy, too.