Where Am I Going?

Stefanie Capone
Jun 4
2 min read

I’ve published enough essays now that people are saying “more.”

“Stefanie we want more.”

It’s flattering.

Dangerously flattering.

So naturally my brain whispers:

Maybe… a book?

Relax.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I wouldn’t even know where to start.

We’ve already covered work addiction, identity collapse, dopamine highs, empathy burnout, aging parents, volunteering, literary analysis, and hiding behind bananas at Costco.

What’s left?

Look at me already assuming I inspire people.

Aspiring. Let’s stay with aspiring.

If I’m honest my ego is well fed right now. And pretending it isn’t would be dishonest.

But excitement has a shadow.

Nervousness.

Expectation.

Pressure.

The very thing I said I retired.

I love writing. It makes me feel content. Grounded. Clear.

But the minute it becomes “what’s next?” my shoulders tense.

So here I am at the kitchen table. Laptop asleep. Typing this from my phone because ambition apparently does not include posture.

Outside: endless winter. November to April in one long gray sigh. I can’t even remember what spring looks like.

My eyes scan the room as if inspiration might be hiding behind the toaster.

Nothing.

If you saw me right now you’d think I’d just had a revelation.

Nope. Just a very committed blank stare.

Then my old companions arrive right on schedule:

You can’t write.

Everything’s been written.

Who’s going to read you?

Ah yes. Hello. I wondered when you’d arrive.

Here’s what I know now:

No one is coming to save me.

And that’s not tragic.

It’s freeing.

If there’s saving to be done we save ourselves first.

That’s today’s free therapy session.

Somewhere between margaritas, guilt, ego, volunteering, and winter I found something unexpected.

Calm.

Writing isn’t a treadmill I have to run at full speed.

It’s a tide.

It comes.