I spent years living in the when-then cycle: When I get this, then I’ll be happy. When I reach that milestone, then my real life begins. I chased dream after dream, but every time I arrived, I’d already set my sights on the next. It took an unexpected pause to see the truth — the in-between isn’t a waiting room. It’s where the becoming happens.

Somewhere between 26 and 32, I started shrinking my desires, believing I was too old, too late, too much. But I’m learning that wanting isn’t dangerous—and naming what we want is its own quiet rebellion.