The art of returning to myself when the world—and my own mind—pulls me away.

I’ve been in a spiral of efforting lately. A low-grade hum of stress mixed with productivity mode: unpacking from travel, prepping for our upcoming move, crossing tasks off the list, catching up on emails, school enrollment, healthcare paperwork—all the things. Necessary, sure. But also familiar. Too familiar.

This is what patriarchal addiction looks like in me.

It’s the trance of achieving. The pull to be efficient. The compulsion to check every box so I can feel—what? Safe? Valuable? Worthy?

When I’m in this mode, it looks like hyper-productivity on the outside and disconnection on the inside. I stop moving my body. I scroll more. Shop more. Bark orders at Leo. I stop drawing, playing music, writing. The parts of me that are most alive and most mine go dormant, and I don’t even notice at first. Not until my body throws a fit—headaches, backaches, irritability. My check-engine lights.

And underneath it all, I start putting myself last.
I do everything for everyone else first. I get Leo set, I get work done, I meet obligations—and then, maybe, maybe, I’ll get to me. I tell myself I’m fine, that I can breathe later. But pretty soon, I’m running out of oxygen. I can’t breathe at all.

That’s when I remember: I’ve relapsed.

Not into drinking. Into the patriarchy.
Into the materialistic, effort-based way of being on the goal line of life.

Kelly and I actually call it that now—patriarchal sobriety.
And like any form of sobriety, it’s one day at a time.

Yesterday I told her I was avoiding myself. She smiled and said, gently, “I know.”
Then, when I tried to start cleaning after lunch, she stopped me. “I got it,” she said. “Go write.”

So here I am. Writing this. And feeling the shift.

At first, it’s hard—like dragging myself back to the gym after a long time away. But the second I start, I remember. I feel the giddiness return. I feel color seep back into what had become black and white. I remember: Oh right. I love this. I love naps, art, writing, music, my body, the light.
I remember who I am.

This is my real life. My soul line life.
The one that isn’t about checking boxes, but following breadcrumbs of joy.

And it takes structure to stay here.
For me, it looks like:

• Being honest when I’m slipping.

• Building accountability (Kelly and I are starting artist dates and body-doubling times to create).

• Leaving my guitar out where I can see it.

• Keeping my sketchbook on the counter.

• Publishing every Monday and Thursday, no matter what.

When my creative tools are visible, they’re possible.
When I let them be light and fun—not another thing to “achieve”—they come alive. And when I create, Leo joins in. The whole house shifts.

So today, I pick up another chip.
I come home to myself.
And I write.

What helps you return when you’ve slipped into efforting, into disconnection?
What’s your version of picking up the chip?

Hit reply and let me know. Let’s walk this soul line together.