𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐲 𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠?

𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒉?

Rock bottom has a narrative arc.

� You break.� You fall.� You rise.

It gives you a role to play. A pain to justify. A triumph to work toward.

But what about the days when nothing is wrong?

When nothing’s falling apart.� When no one’s mad.� When the bank account isn’t overdrawn. � When your body isn’t in rebellion.� When the relationship isn’t exploding or imploding or demanding anything.

Just… silence.

Not bliss. Not despair. Just that weird stillness.

� And suddenly—𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐲.� Fidgety.� Bored.� Suspicious.

𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜… 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒？� 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑚 𝐼 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔？� 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑝？

Here’s the invisible leash:

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨.

� And when peace walks in, and there’s no fire to put out, it feels like a slow, boring death.

Because if there’s no chaos to fix, who are you now?� If no one needs rescuing, validating, or managing… what do you do with all this power?� If there’s no struggle… how do you know you still matter?

Let that sit.� Let it ache.� Let it call your bluff.

Because maybe the next level of your evolution isn’t found in triumph.

� It’s found in 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞.

To let nothing be wrong.

� And not need something to fix in order to feel alive.

So here’s your Philosophy Friday question, love:

𝐈𝐟 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮… 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞?

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨" 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲?

Sit with that. Don’t rush to answer. Let your body speak first.

We don't always need to fall to rise.

� Sometimes, we just need to 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞.