As a child, the world was a wonderful place, and wonder was how I showed up in it.

I was loud. Exuberant. Filled with joy.

Yet, somewhere early on, I absorbed a quieter message.

Not spoken, but present. Persistent. Unrelenting:

Be good. Be right. Be better.

I internalised that being joyful wasn’t enough.

I needed to be useful. Productive. Impeccable.

I came to believe that trying hard, meeting expectations, and always having the answers was what made me real.

I loved creating order out of chaos.

I loved cleaning a room to perfection.

There was something almost transcendent in that moment when everything clicked into place, when the external reflected the internal.

Then, it felt like the world made sense.

Even if just for a moment.

So I became the good girl.

Diligent. Reliable. Organised. Exacting.

There was comfort in striving, in meeting the invisible standard.

Even when I didn’t know who set it.

I found satisfaction in the doing.

I distrusted stillness.

I resented interruptions.

I feared just being.

I learned to correct myself instinctively, subconsciously.

I’d get home after a long day and replay every word, every moment.

What I should’ve said. Shouldn’t have said. What I missed. What I could’ve done better.

The scoreboard in my mind kept measuring me.

How much I’d given.

How much I’d lost.

How much I’d sacrificed.

That’s how I learned to measure my value.

I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to understand why.

Trying to reach in.

Trying to soften the parts of me that don’t know how to rest.

Resisting the belief that I only deserve love, peace or ease if I work hard enough.

Unconditional anything feels unnatural.

Unlearning is hard.

I am drawn to structure, speed and control.

But I know life rarely works that way.

Not real life. Not embodied life. Not soul-led life.

I know that the child, filled with wonder, lives on within me.

I know she longs for joy. For freedom. For spontaneity.

So I return to that version of me, gently.

The one who danced like no one was watching.

The one who belted out showtunes without concern for who was listening.

The one who believed the world was wonderful.

Just because.

Reaching in hasn’t “fixed” me.

But it has helped me notice.

To slow down a little.

To ask how I wish to reach out:

With insistence or intention.

With pressure or presence.

With goodness and grace.

Reaching in offers possibilities.

Reaching out offers connections.

Because with time and patience, it holds up new lenses.

The work isn’t to stop being who I am.

The work is to remember that I was never broken in the first place.

I am reminded that order can be beautiful and

it doesn’t have to be everything.

That my worth isn’t in my doing and that joy can be reason enough.

And maybe, just maybe, walking inside the lines isn’t salvation.

It’s just one way of walking.

There are other ways, too.