A while back, I sent my sister a text that said:

“I am trying to book this but I feel shaken inside and have this nervous feeling in my gut and why am I freaking out?”

Looking back now, it sounds dramatic.

I was trying to book a sauna house.

Not skydiving. Not moving across the country. A sauna.

But in that moment, it felt emotionally huge, and I could not understand why.

The strange part was that I genuinely wanted to go. This was not something someone suggested to me or talked me into. I had wanted to try it for over a year. I had looked it up before, thought about it before, almost booked it before. But every time, something in me hesitated. It felt strangely familiar, like there was an invisible force standing between wanting something and actually letting myself have it.

Part of my nervousness came from the fact that the experience was tech-free. I found myself thinking things that did not fully make sense. What if my kids need me? What if someone can’t reach me? What if something happens while I’m unavailable? My kids are older. I have left them before. Logically, I knew everything would be fine, and yet I could feel this nervousness in my gut that made something so small feel much bigger than it actually was.

Eventually, I booked it.

And when I finally went, I enjoyed it.

That is what made the whole thing feel even stranger.

I felt proud for finally doing something I had wanted for so long. Proud that I had actually followed through instead of filing it away under things I should try someday. There was even a part of me that felt almost giddy, like maybe I was becoming the kind of woman who actually does the things she wants to do instead of only thinking about them.

But underneath all of that, there was another feeling I wasn’t expecting.

Even while I was enjoying myself, part of me never fully settled into being there.

It is hard to explain because nothing was wrong. I felt safe. I was enjoying the experience. I was not lonely. And yet there was this strange feeling underneath it all, almost like I was experiencing someone else’s experience. Like I was there, but not fully there. Part of me seemed slightly detached, already moving on before I had fully arrived. I remember this quiet feeling of okay… how much longer are we staying? or we should probably go soon, even though I did not actually want to leave.

I could not stop thinking about how strange that felt.

Why did something I genuinely want feel so emotionally hard?

Why couldn’t I fully settle into something that existed purely for me?

And then, unexpectedly, I remembered something from when I was little.

I was a very shy child. I remember sitting against the wall in preschool watching the other kids play. I wanted to join them. I remember wanting to go play so badly, but it felt like there was this invisible force keeping me stuck where I was.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested, and it wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I wanted to be part of it. I just couldn’t make myself get up.

The circumstances were completely different, but the feeling was strangely familiar. Sitting there trying to book a sauna, I found myself facing the same resistance. I wanted something, yet there seemed to be this invisible force standing between wanting it and allowing myself to step toward it.

Around the same time, I finally tried a walking trail I had wanted to explore for years. Looking back, I think it was a mix of fear, uncertainty, safety concerns, and maybe simply not trusting myself enough to go alone. As I walked, I noticed myself mentally creating exit points. Every clearing became an opportunity to turn around. You’ve already tried. You don’t have to finish. You can head back whenever you want.

But something in me kept going.

When I reached the end, I felt proud in a way that surprised me. Not dramatically proud. Just quietly proud. I felt capable, present, and somehow more alive than I expected to feel.

But mixed in with that pride was another feeling I did not expect.

Sadness.

Not heavy sadness. More like realization.

Because I started thinking about how robotic I had been for longer than I cared to admit.

I was functioning. Showing up. Taking care of responsibilities. Doing what needed to be done. Living, technically.

But not really living.

I think that is why these small experiences affected me more than they should have.

They were never really about a sauna.

Or a walking trail.

They were about participating in my own life.

About noticing how many things I had quietly postponed. How many experiences I had filed away under someday. How often I had stood on the sidelines of my own life, watching instead of joining.

I think that is what this season has been teaching me.

That coming back to yourself does not always look dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like finally booking the thing.

Taking the walk.

Trying something alone.

Feeling nervous and doing it anyway.

Feeling awkward in the joy of it because maybe you are still learning how to receive experiences that exist just for you.

I do not think I am fully there yet.

If I am honest, part of me is still learning how to stop going through the motions and actually be present in my own life. Part of me is still learning how to trust myself enough to step forward without rehearsing every possible outcome first.

But something is changing.

Slowly.

Quietly.

The little girl sitting against the wall still lives somewhere inside me.

The difference is that she is finally starting to get up.