🕯️Conditioned to Erase🕯️

        It began with chalk and silence.

Some memories drift back like mist — uninvited, but persistent. There was a figure once drawn in the open, born of play and a changing season. What we created didn’t last. What lingered did.

I don’t remember how old I was — just old enough to roam the block with my best friend who lived a street over. On the far side stood two churches, facing each other like quiet sentinels with only a street between them. Growing up in the Bible Belt, churches on every corner were as common as corner stores.

One of these churches had a vast, sun-bleached parking lot. To us, it was more than pavement — it was a canvas. It was close to Halloween, I remember — that glimmering window when witches weren’t feared, just festive — and half the reason we decided to draw her. Armed with the biggest bucket of chalk you could imagine, my friend, her siblings, my sister, and I set to work crafting the most magnificent witch we could conjure. Crooked hat. Wild broom. A cloak that danced across the asphalt like wind-summoned leaves. She wasn’t small — she took up almost the entire parking lot. Sprawling and spectacular, as if we were trying to summon her into being with sheer scale alone.

But the magic didn’t last. A church member came out and asked us — kindly, I think — to wash it all away.

It wasn’t simple, and it certainly wasn’t easy. We hauled water in plastic buckets from a garden spigot, sloshing it across the pavement as if trying to scrub away something deeper than chalk. Fingers wrinkled, sneakers soaked, arms sticky with sweat and silence. The witch faded slowly, her cloak blurring, her broom melting into a soft smear. We kept going, though our hearts weren’t in it. We were all sad — hurt, even — that something we had poured hours of joy and collaboration into had to disappear. Our cartoon witch wasn’t dangerous. She was delightful. But she wasn’t allowed to live on.

I didn’t question it then. But now, I find myself returning to that moment with different eyes. What began as innocent play feels more like quiet rebellion — where creativity brushed up against institutional discomfort. We were invoking something ancient, perhaps unknowingly: the archetype of the witch — powerful, unruly, feminine. And in doing so, we stood at a crossroads: innocence meeting societal conditioning, joy tangled with subtle censorship.

The chalk witch wasn’t just whimsical. She was potent. A symbol of feminine power drawn unapologetically between two patriarchal structures. That parking lot — scorched by sun and shielded by steeples — became a temporary temple. And when they asked us to erase her, it wasn’t just about chalk. It was about erasing the possibility that such energy could exist openly in a space bound by doctrine.

Witches have long represented the women who would not shrink. Who healed, who created, who defied. And we — dusty-kneed children tracing magic across pavement — carried their echo. We weren’t just drawing; we were conjuring. We gave her form, gave her breath, gave her a place to stand. And when she was gone, the space felt hollow — like something sacred had been silenced before it could speak.

That crossroads — innocence meeting conditioning — didn’t end with childhood. It echoes still. The names change, the spaces shift, but the message remains: Tame it, contain it, control it—the trinity of societal conditioning designed to keep wildness fenced in.. From as far back as I can remember, something about the world has always tried to tell me what joy is appropriate, what expression is permissible, what kind of magic belongs. But I also remember the witch. Almost the size of the lot. Too big to ignore. Too wild to forget.

The witch on the asphalt, ephemeral as she was, lives on in me. A whispered reminder that art and feminine wildness must not only be allowed, but protected. Even now, when expectations try to button down my joy or edit my wonder, I think of her—the witch we dared to draw. And I remember that social conditioning may govern public spaces, but magic always finds its cracks.

✨Let Monday Be Enough✨

Good morning, beautiful world.

It’s Monday, again. That old friend we love to hate. The day we’ve all been trained to side-eye like it just knocked on the door with a stack of overdue bills.

I used to dread Mondays. Maybe I still do, a little. There’s something jarring about the transition—from weekend softness to weekday expectations. People joke about needing extra coffee or crawling back into bed. And I get it…

But lately, I’ve started wondering: When did Monday become the villain?

Was it the grind of the 9-to-5 that gave it teeth? The cultural echo of productivity and hustle? Maybe it’s not even Monday itself—it’s what it represents.

Monday isn’t evil. It’s just misunderstood.

It’s the inhale before the work begins. The quiet decision to show up.

Sure, it can be messy. Plans might unravel. Schedules may betray us. But there’s something beautiful in starting again, even if everything doesn’t go to plan.

One who bursts in unannounced, a little loud, maybe bringing a whirlwind with them… but underneath the chaos, they’re here to help me begin.

Instead, I’m making it present.

Let it be quirky, uneven—beautiful in its weirdness.

Let it hold enough space for both effort and ease.

Still breathing.

Still me.

Still… here’s what I’ve come to learn:

It’s not here to punish you for resting. It’s here to offer a fresh canvas.

So today, I’m greeting Monday like a slightly frazzled friend.

I’m learning to let go of the pressure to make Monday “productive” or “perfect.”

Let it be gentle in the ways it needs to be.

Even if the plans unravel or the mood shift, I’m still standing.

✨Week’s End Wisdom:✨ 

🪴From Asking to Understanding🪴

            Once again that wonderful time is upon us! Hello weekend, lovely to see you again. I know Monday I posted about connection(s), and had some hard questions I posed to ask myself. Though I have put little thought into them, today, I thought I would look back, and take a deeper look into what I am currently going through. Where in my comfort have I allowed things that, anyone from the outside looking in, wouldn't allow themselves.

The questions:

 💬 When does someone outgrow connections?

• Sometimes, it’s not even about fault—it’s about soul timing. The connection may have served its purpose: a lesson, a comfort, or a challenge you needed to move forward. Like chapters in a book, not all characters are meant to journey with you through every page.

💬 Am I being held back by comfort disguised as care?

• When comfort masquerades as care, it can quietly anchor us to places we’ve outgrown. What feels nurturing on the surface may actually be preserving a version of us that no longer fits. True care champions growth, even when it disrupts the familiar. If someone’s concern gently steers you away from risk, change, or discomfort, it may be time to ask whether their support is for who you are—or who they feel safest with.

These were two questions I asked myself.  I also wanted to make a map of how to navigate through this process, with the least resistance. 

Making the map:

Where am I headed?

• Lately, I’ve been feeling this shift. I’m moving toward something that feels aligned with both the mystical alignment I trust and the grounded way I navigate life. It’s not some big dramatic leap—it’s slow, deliberate. I’m done bending to outside expectations, and I’m finally piecing together a version of my story that holds all parts of me: the grit and the grace, the planner and the dreamer, the structure and the sacred.

• It’s not just about progress anymore—it’s about presence. I’m making space where my voice lands, where my energy holds, where my communities feel like home. I’m not just showing up—I’m settling in with intention.

What do I expect from those who say they want the best for me?

• I expect honesty that doesn’t fold under pressure. If I set boundaries, I expect them to be respected—not debated or twisted to fit someone else’s comfort. I’m not here to play small so others can feel steady. Understanding doesn’t mean agreement—it means listening without trying to change me. Respect isn’t about how easy I am to handle; it’s about how willing someone is to honor me, even when my truth makes them uncomfortable.

So here's to Fridays—not just as a weekly exhale, but as a reminder that it’s okay to pause, to reassess, to ask better questions. This weekend, I’m honoring the slow shift—the kind that doesn’t clamor for attention but quietly reshapes everything. I’m not chasing clarity; I’m cultivating it. And as I settle into myself with intention, I’ll let connection bloom where it’s welcome, let boundaries stand where they’re needed, and let the map I’ve started sketching guide me with grace.

Cheers to choosing presence over performance—and to honoring Fridays not as a way to run from the week, but as a way to come home to ourselves. 

Wednesday Musings:

Backbone of a Nation

        As I sit here contemplating today’s blog post, I keep hearing that inner voice whispering the same old Wednesday blues: “I don’t want to do anything,” and I bet I’m not the only one feeling this way. It’s midweek—the hill has been climbed and Friday’s glow is peeking just over the horizon. But wait… dear Wednesday deserves its due. It’s not just a checkpoint. It’s the embodiment of routine, repeated action, the rhythm of life itself.

Sometimes, life feels like an endless loop. We’ve been taught to work tirelessly, to keep pushing even when rest is overdue. People grind so hard these days, they barely have time for their families—and I see that firsthand. My family is blue collar. My husband earns every dollar with sweat on his brow and strength in his hands. And let me tell you, this summer heat? It’s brutal—an unforgiving monster that doesn’t clock out.

I’m a stay-at-home wife and mother. While some might dismiss that, it’s a role that carries weight. It isn’t glamorous or glorified, but it’s deeply vital. I manage the home, absorb the stress, and hold the family’s rhythm so my husband can grind through hard labor in the summer heat. In many working-class homes, staying out of the paid workforce isn’t a choice made out of privilege—it’s survival. With childcare costs soaring and life moving faster than paychecks, one-income households are still the backbone for families like mine.

Society often measures value in pay stubs and tax filings, but let me tell you—some of the most impactful work happens off the books. While dual-income households dominate headlines, nearly 29% of mothers today are stay-at-home moms. In working-class families, this choice—or necessity—keeps the wheels turning.

Still, there’s a bigger game at play. The people who truly hold power—the elites behind political, media, and corporate curtains—aren’t working for the average family. They’re shaping narratives, driving divisions, and feeding distractions that keep us looking sideways instead of upward. That’s where herd mentality comes in: lead the masses just enough to keep them quiet, compliant, and endlessly busy.

🌿 Beneath the Surface: Quiet Truths About American Life

• Hundreds of thousands of blue-collar jobs sit unfilled, while families struggle to afford basics

• A rising number of workers—many of them physical laborers—carry unseen emotional stress

• Parents staying home today are making choices not out of luxury, but out of necessity

• Most workers feel silenced around mental health, fearful that honesty costs them their jobs

• Disposable income continues to shrink, while costs grow—tightening the squeeze on stability

Freedom in this world, in America? It’s the biggest lie ever sold. “Free country”? That phrase tastes bitter when everything costs—life, joy, even death. You want to live? Pay up. You want to celebrate? Pay up. You die? Someone else pays for that too.

Blue collar workers are the backbone of this country. They keep the gears turning and ask for little in return. Yet they’re still hurting—mentally worn, physically spent, emotionally depleted. They sacrifice day after day for families they barely get to enjoy. And yes, I’m home—but my heart aches for every family fighting this fight.

Going forward, I believe the value of home-based labor—the kind that doesn’t show up on a W2—needs to be seen for what it truly is: foundational. Stay-at-home wives and moms aren’t retreating from work—they’re fortifying the workforce by keeping the other half standing. If our culture re-centered around family stability instead of endless hustle, maybe the working class wouldn’t have to hurt so hard just to make it through the week.

When you step back, you start to see it. This isn’t about left or right—it’s about misdirection. It’s about agendas, not representation. The wealth elite keep spinning their machines while the working class burns out trying to survive. That’s not freedom—it’s manufactured obedience.

The quiet truths echo louder when you live them daily. These aren’t isolated stories—they’re shared realities. This isn't just my truth. It’s America’s working-class truth, lived every single day by millions who give their all with little recognition. So the next time you see a dirty job and turn your nose up, remember: someone is out there doing that work for you. Instead of pointing fingers, maybe take a step back. Ask yourself who’s really on your side—and who isn’t. Blaming Trump or Biden solves nothing. The deeper issue is who benefits from our division—and who suffers because of it

🎨Moving Through Creative Phases🌿

--(And Probably Again Tomorrow)--

    Sometimes I wake up feeling like a writer. Sometimes a streamer. Most of the time, I just want to decorate fake gardens and ignore the world. And other times, I can’t decide which version of me is knocking.

It’s not chaos—it’s how I work.

I change gears so often it might look like indecision from the outside. But I am learning what I need each day, and I’m slowly learning not everything needs apologized for. One week I’m deep in metrics and timers and Twitch analytics. The next, I’m spinning metaphors and picking apart why I feel weird inside my own skin. There’s no roadmap, just curiosity and mood swings.

For a long time, I thought consistency was the holy grail of credibility. Like if I didn’t show up the same way every time, people wouldn’t take me seriously. And sometimes they don’t. But that’s not really mine to carry.

What I've started to realize is that creative rhythm isn’t linear—it’s tidal. Some days I want precision and stats. Other days I want storytelling and silence. It’s not wrong. It’s just real.

Letting go of the need to package myself neatly—creator, streamer, writer, whatever—has made me more honest. Not just with the people watching, but with myself.

There are little signs. I laugh while writing something that makes sense only to me, but it still feels honest. I chase a weird train of thought because it hits something real, even if I can’t fully explain why. I let myself explore without having to package it as something useful.

Some days, all I do is game and breathe a little easier. Other days, I write something that surprises me—like my brain managed to untangle a knot without asking permission first.

I don’t always know what the next post will be about. Or what mood I’ll be in from day to day. But I do know this: moving through creative phases is my way forward. It’s not a glitch in the system—it is the system.

If you’re reading this & feeling a little blurry about your own lanes, consider it permission to pivot. Again, and again, and again.

Because truth rarely arrives dressed in consistency. Most of the time, it shows up wearing something unexpected—and you either shift with it, or let it pass.

So here’s me, trusting the turns. Letting the next version of whatever I create show up when it’s ready, not when I’ve decided it’s due. If you’re in that place too, just know: movement is still momentum. And you don’t have to make it look perfect to make it count.

 🧿Breaking the Cycle: 🧿

🌟A Morning of Reflection🌟

    This morning, as I sit down with my coffee and keyboard, I find myself contemplating where I am—not just in life, but mentally, spiritually, energetically. It’s strange how early I understood that people grow apart. It felt normal, expected even. But why does it keep happening? That question lingers.

Time is a never-ending cycle. Yes, a cycle—not a straight line. What has happened, will happen again, unless someone wakes up and chooses differently. Unless someone shatters the rhythm, disrupts the constraints of time.

Lately, retrograde energy has nudged me toward uncomfortable truths. I've been reflecting, asking not just what I deserve, but what I’ve been willing to accept. There's been a lingering feeling: being walked on. Feeling unheard, even in the simplest of ways.

Last week, I couldn’t muster the drive to stream. Was it one day? Two? I’ve lost track. I just didn’t feel it. I felt invisible.
And while I did speak up—clearly, intentionally—the response felt familiar, repeated. Maybe the pattern’s still there. Maybe it’s not. I’ve stopped checking. 

What I do know is this: I wont allow it to keep happening. - That silence isn’t avoidance—it’s self-respect. And revisiting this moment now doesn’t hurt because I didn’t speak. It hurts because speaking didn’t change when I needed it to.

RESPECT—it’s a two-way street. And when only one side gets maintained, the other turns into a doormat.

There’s a kind of silence that creeps in when boundaries are tested—not by strangers, but by the very voices I’ve allowed closest to me. I’ve asked, calmly and clearly, for one thing: don’t name me in a space I’ve shaped with care and purpose. A simple request. Repeated far too many times. And yet it continues—like my comfort is negotiable, my identity a casual aside, my words irrelevant to their broadcast. The sting isn’t loud, but it’s persistent. It doesn’t erupt—it corrodes. Last week, it scraped deep enough that I couldn’t bring myself to go live. I couldn’t summon the spark to show up—not even in pixels. The space where I connect, laugh, and build… suddenly felt too exposed, like I’d lost control of the room I built. Disrespect doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives quietly, in the familiar cadence of someone who believes they know you—yet refuses to listen.

So I’m asking myself hard questions:

 💬 When does someone outgrow connections?
💬 Am I being held back by comfort disguised as care?

I want better. Not just for today, but for tomorrow and every day after. Whether I stream or stay silent, I’m seeking something to learn. And today, I want to learn who, what, and how I’m supported on this journey.

It’s time to make a map:

• Where am I headed?

• What do I expect from those who say they want the best for me?

Because if I’m not being heard, I’ll find a way to speak louder—not through volume, but through clarity and truth.

 🪐Retrograde Season: 🌘

Remembering Who I Am

    I don’t always track the planets, but when everything starts feeling upside down — tech glitching, weird dreams, sudden bursts of old emotions — I start to wonder. And sure enough, here we are again. Mercury’s in retrograde. Saturn too. Neptune spinning backward right along with them. And all of it is happening in Aries.

My sign.

I’m used to fire. I’m used to forward motion, to figuring it out as I go. I’ve built a life from sparks and instincts. But this? This retrograde season feels like being asked to sit in a still room while everything rearranges itself. And somehow, I’m supposed to keep breathing through it.

Lately, I’ve been remembering versions of myself I thought I was done with. Old ideas. Old dreams. Old wounds. They’re not loud. They show up in the quiet spaces—in the shower, in traffic, at 2AM when I can’t sleep. Not to haunt me, but to ask:

What have you forgotten about yourself?
And I’ll be honest—part of me wants to run. That Aries fire kicks up, tells me to act, to move, to fix. But there’s a different voice emerging now. It’s softer, but rooted.

It says:
This isn’t about rushing. It’s about refining.
Mercury’s retrograde is making me question how I speak to myself. What I affirm, what I repeat, what I declare without thinking.
Saturn’s retrograde is making me check the structures in my life. The routines. The responsibilities I didn’t question until now.
Neptune’s retrograde? That one’s pulling at my spirit—asking if the vision I’ve been chasing is even mine.
So instead of forcing clarity, I’m letting the questions come.
Instead of chasing the next step, I’m rooting deeper into the present one.

And in the middle of all this planetary rewind, I feel something powerful settling in:
I don’t need to become anything.
I just need to remember who I already am.
And maybe this retrograde, wild as it is, is exactly what I needed.
To slow down enough to hear myself again.
To stand still long enough to let the magic catch up.
To make peace with the pause before the next fire lights up.
Because I’m not lost.
I’m realigning.
And when I move again —
It’s going to be different.
It’s going to be true.

And somehow, all of that is a gift.

This isn’t just cosmic chaos. It’s sacred rearrangement.

That’s the energy I’m manifesting from. Not desperation, not fantasy — but alignment. Trust. Reconnection. I’m not rushing to prove or to fix. I’m opening to receive. I’m calling in what’s already meant for me and clearing out what never truly fit.

 The Unseen Phases of Motherhood:

Rediscovering the Self

    There’s a quiet shift that happens in the stillness of early mornings—before the house stirs, before the world expects anything of you. It’s in those fleeting moments—the breath before the baby cries, the silence before a teenager’s door creaks open—that many mothers feel it. That ache. That question:

≻Who am I now?

Motherhood, in all its beauty and chaos, has phases we don’t always talk about. Not just the milestones—first steps, graduations, bedtime routines—but the internal seasons. The ones that unfold quietly, beneath the surface. These are the unseen phases. The ones where a woman quietly disappears, only to find herself again—transformed.

But as the days blur together and your own needs sink beneath the surface, something begins to shift. It’s not loud or dramatic—it’s quiet. Subtle. You feel it before you can name it.

---

≻Losing Yourself

When you become a mother, especially for the first time, the shift is often immediate. You are suddenly the center of another being’s universe. It’s powerful. It’s consuming. And in many ways, it’s sacred.

But no one prepares you for how slowly your identity can begin to erode.

You trade spontaneous nights for nap schedules. You replace mirrors with monitors. Your name—your actual name—is spoken less than “Mom.” It’s beautiful, yes. But also disorienting.

And it’s not just in the early years. There are phases where you're needed so intensely, you forget how to need yourself.

---

≻You Are Not Alone

So many mothers carry this silent wondering. They smile at pickups, cheer at recitals, manage homework and dinner and dishes—but behind the doing is a quiet yearning to be again.

Motherhood doesn’t erase you. It expands you.

---

≻Rediscovering Yourself

At some point, rediscovery becomes essential. Not for vanity. Not for rebellion. But for survival.

It might begin with something small:

• A walk taken alone—not for steps, but for stillness.

• Journaling—not because the thoughts are profound, but because they’re yours.

• Returning to a passion you left behind—or discovering something new that makes your soul light up again.

This isn't selfish. It’s sacred.

---

≻How to Come Back to You

If you're in an unseen phase right now—one that feels invisible, lonely, or undefined—here are gentle ways to begin again:

• Honor your feelings: They are valid, even the uncomfortable ones. Especially those.

• Reclaim a ritual: Bring back something that was uniquely yours. A morning stretch. Music. Poetry. Solitude.

• Make micro-moments for yourself: It doesn’t have to be grand. A hot cup of coffee, uninterrupted. A deep breath before the chaos. These moments matter.

• Connect honestly: Talk to another mother without the mask. Vulnerability opens the door to healing.

• Give yourself permission: To grow, to want more, to ask for help, to rest, to be seen.

---

≻You Were Never Meant to Disappear

Motherhood stretches you. It will make you feel infinite and invisible in the same breath.

You were never meant to disappear.

You are not just a title or a to-do list. You are a soul—alive, sacred, and still unfolding.

“I am still here.”

 

Humid Tuesdays & Halfhearted Hustles

    Here I am, this heavy and humid summer Tuesday morning. The husband’s out the door with everything he needs, and I’m back at square one—debating whether I want sleep or just an escape. Truth is, curling up under the covers sounds great, but I know deep down it’s not really sleep I’m craving. It’s relief from this fog.

I keep telling myself I’m not in the mood to stream today. Nothing urgent is pulling me elsewhere, aside from the usual tasks—dusting, sweeping, wrangling the never-ending to-do list. But I don’t want to do those things either. I feel weighed down, emotionally cluttered. And for what? I haven’t even done much yet.

Streaming feels like I’m pouring energy into a cracked cup. I show up, chat happens, good vibes roll—but then I glance at the metrics, and it feels off. One line tells me I’ve met my payout goal. The one below says I haven’t. Classic. It’s hard not to feel deflated when the numbers tangle like that. Makes me wonder why I bother showing up at all.

But I do. People stop by, they talk, they share space with me—and that matters, even when the subs and tips don’t roll in. Most days I can hold onto that. Today, though, the tired part of my brain forgets. 

I don’t have any flashy revelations this morning. No big wisdom bombs like yesterday’s mana-fest manifest moment. Just this slump. And the quiet, stubborn part of me that knows it’ll pass. Not by lunch, not overnight—but probably by next Tuesday. I tend to move in weekly cycles, where the world looks sideways today and strangely clearer tomorrow.

Keeping up the home is my full-time hustle. Cooking, laundry, managing the mess—and the mental load. It’s invisible labor, and it stacks up in the background while everything else demands attention. Today it just feels louder.

So yeah, no grand message, no motivational spark. Just me, showing up anyway. Sitting in the humidity, writing through the gray, glancing around at my dusty shelves and muttering, “I should really handle that.” And let’s be real—even after posting this, there’s a solid chance I’ll pass back out with no shame. 😴

Show up. Even if all you’ve got is half a spark.

What do you do when motivation ghosts you? Push through or flop dramatically into a blanket cocoon and pretend time isn’t real?

 The ✨Shimmer✨ Between Intuition & Action

The word manifest has been following me around like glitter after a parade. It’s been on my mind so much lately that I started pulling it apart—like if I cracked the syllables open, they’d spill secrets.

Mana. Fest.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Mana, as in the biblical food—mysterious sustenance from the heavens. The kind of thing that shows up exactly when you're lost, hungry, and asking the cosmic equivalent of “what now?” And then fest, like... a celebration? A ritual? Are we feasting on divine sustenance when we manifest something?

I know, I know. This could be me overthinking a perfectly normal word. But the deeper I dug, the more potent it felt.

Mana: Spiritual Power with Many Passports:

Biblically, mana was nourishment wrapped in mystery. It wasn’t just food—it was proof that something bigger had your back. Then I found that in Hawaiian and Polynesian tradition, mana is a spiritual force. It's inner authority, energetic presence, creative capacity. Basically, it’s the invisible fuel that fires your soul engine.

Suddenly, manifesting wasn’t just setting intentions. It became something more... ritualistic.

Manifest: Bringing the Invisible into Focus:

Manifest comes from the Latin manifestus, meaning “plainly visible” or “seized by the hand.” That struck me. If you manifest something, you’re grabbing it out of the intangible. You’re translating a vibe into form. A feeling into a tweet. An idea into action.

It’s not “dream and wait.” It’s “receive and reshape.”

That “fest” part? Maybe it’s the act of celebrating what’s already on its way. Maybe manifestation is less about asking and more about aligning—showing up hungry for mana and letting the feast begin.

So What Does This Mean… For Me:

I think what it means—for me, anyway—is that I'm starting to see the subtle ways I've always been manifesting, even if I never used that word. It’s not about declaring what I want and waiting for the universe to deliver it like takeout. It’s more like... tracking how something unspoken nudges me to move, create, respond.

Like, when I follow an idea that doesn’t make logical sense but feels alive in my chest—that’s a form of manifestation. When I build something weird in Discord that nobody asked for but somehow fits perfectly? That’s me taking mana and shaping it. When a sentence hits me while I’m rinsing out a coffee cup and I drop everything to write it down—that’s the feast. The ritual. The art.

I'm not trying to build a system out of it. I don't want to package it, sell it, or pretend I fully understand it. I'm just noticing. Noticing when things shimmer. And choosing to follow the shimmer.