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You are a visionary,
and that is a blessing,
and a bruise.
Your dreams: cathedrals so vast
you lose yourself in the blueprint,
a thousand doors unlocked,
and yet your hands tremble
at the threshold.

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You are exponential,
the world applauds your ease,
and yet you carry a secret,
that shameful ease,
a whisper:
“I didn’t work hard enough to deserve this.”
You build empires on a borrowed guilt.

 

You are tangled in unseen threads,
competing vows stitched into your skin.
The very commitments that fuel you
anchor you down.
You say: I want this,
but an unspoken no
pulls you sideways,
and you wonder why the work
feels hollow.

 

You live in the Gray Zone,
too fast to rest,
too slow to soar.
Your legs move,
but the ground does not give.
You sweat, you labour,
and yet the garden stays empty.
And oh, how the world applauds your exhaustion.

 

You are a hunter of problems,
eyes sharp as blades,
tracking danger across the horizon.
But when the threat is gone,
you lose interest.
Love feels like a tax return,
and your future
a never-ending to-do list.

 

You are a sculptor of perfection,
each project a higher cliff to climb,
each success resetting the bar,
until your hands bleed
at the thought of beginning again.
The masterpiece
becomes the prison.

 

You are always running forward,
feet pounding into the future,
rarely stopping to tend
the déjà vu of your own patterns.
The same wave crashes,
again and again,
and you never learn to swim.

 

You say you don’t need help.
And maybe you don’t.
You’re the one they come to:
the architect, the fixer, the storm-chaser.
But who holds the mirror
when you refuse to look?
Who dares to say what you cannot see?
Who softens the edges
of your relentless will?

 

The higher you climb,
the thinner the air.
Fewer voices speak the truth
when you sit at the top.
You think you’re playing full out,
but there is a bigger game.
A quieter game.
A game not of conquering,
but of belonging.
A game not of brilliance,
but of presence.
A game not of performance,
but of becoming.

 

And your cardboard wings,
they were never meant for speed.
They were meant to catch the light.

 

So pause,
right here.

 

Take a breath.
Feel the weight of your own brilliance,
and set it down, for a moment.

 

Ask yourself, gently:
What is enough for today?

 

And listen.
Not for the answer you think you should hear,
but for the whisper that has been waiting
beneath the noise.

 

The whisper that says:
It’s okay to begin again.
Not as the high achiever.
Not as the problem-solver.
Not as the one who always knows.

 

But as the one who is learning to stay.

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