When It Stops Being Fun

Misery.
That’s the feeling.

Not all the time.
But enough to notice.

It comes up when I’m told to do things I don’t want to do.
Not out of resistance—
but out of misalignment.

They don’t align with who I am,
who I’m becoming,
or anything I care to be.

“Be a team player.”

I’ve been thinking about that.

At the cost of what?

Because I make winning plays.
That’s how I move through life.

And the play being called right now…
doesn’t lead to a win.

I know because I’ve seen it before.
We’ve done this before.

We push through.
We execute.
We get the result.

Dollars… and misery.

And I’m realizing—
that payout isn’t worth the cost.

My mind is analytical by nature.
I observe patterns.
I look at outcomes.

And when I analyze this,
it just doesn’t make sense
to keep choosing something
that consistently leads here.

So when I hear,
“This is what we’re doing anyway—
to prove a point,”
I pause.

Because I can feel the cost before it even arrives.

More misery.
Less joy.

More money for you.
The same dollars for me.

I’m not writing this to complain.

I’m writing this because I’m noticing.

This is not my game.

I’ve played it.
And I’ve done well.

But somewhere along the way,
it stopped being fun.

And the truth—
I don’t have to keep playing
a game that no longer feels like mine.

Exhale.

Misery loves company—
but so does clarity.

Good company reminds me
that I am a changemaker.

Good company reminds me
that I am not the problem.

Good company reminds me
that change doesn’t happen all at once—
but it does happen.

That one day,
I’ll call the shots.
I’ll be in control.

These problems aren’t mine alone.
They existed long before me
and may exist long after me.

But with the courage to change what I can,
the peace to accept what I cannot,
and the wisdom to know the difference—
I can do all things.

“Wait and see.”

I’m not sure what I’m waiting for,
or how long I’ll wait…

but something tells me—
it’s already in motion.

Mabe It Was Never Daughters

I used to say I’d have daughters.
I thought it made sense.

I didn’t have a mother.
So somewhere along the way, I told myself a story—
I’ll become what I didn’t have.

It felt noble.
It felt healing.
It felt… expected.

But if I’m honest,
it also felt like a box.

Another quiet way of deciding my life
before I ever really lived it.

Lately, I’ve been freeing myself
from the cages I didn’t realize I built.

Letting go of the idea
that there’s only one path,
one story,
one way to make meaning out of my past.

Life isn’t one assignment.
It’s choose your adventure.

And I’m realizing—
I had been choosing an adventure
that wasn’t aligned.

That discomfort I felt?
That resistance?

It wasn’t confusion.
It was truth knocking.

This morning, I sat in my backyard—
sun rising behind me,
a quiet stream reflecting,
trees holding me in place.

And it became clear.

Not forced.
Not reasoned.
Just… known.

Sons.

I will have sons.

And suddenly—
everything opened.

My future felt wide instead of narrow.
Light instead of heavy.
Aligned instead of assigned.

Because the truth is…
the thought of raising daughters felt like pressure.

But the thought of raising sons?

Feels like joy.
Feels like purpose.
Feels like me.

Maybe it’s faith.
Maybe it’s intuition.
Maybe it’s simply choosing differently.

But it’s my story.

And for the first time,
I’m not writing it from what I lacked—

I’m writing it from what I feel.

I will raise boys.
And I will raise them well.

Because I already know how to love them. My sons will wear crowns.