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There's something subtly emerging within my body this morning. 

A gentle wind stirring the dried debris that sits beneath my rib cage.

Interesting.

I reflect on the lives we're invited to live — the pace, the structures, the endless striving — and on the dream life I created for myself the the last eight years.

Now, I find myself hungry for something I can't quite name. 

It's a strange feeling to long for something you can't yet point to.

But I've learned to trust hunger.

When I look back over my life, every chapter has begun there. Not with certainty. Not with a five-year plan. With an ache. A quiet knowing that I could no longer keep living inside what had already become too small.

The last few years stripped me of nearly everything I loved.

I watched a life I had worked incredibly hard to create crumble.

I lost my mom.

I slowly let go of the version of myself who believed it was my job to carry everyone else.

I've lived in the compost of that life and it's been excruciating.

Compost has its own timeline. You can't rush it. You can't force something new to grow before what's old has had the chance to become soil.

So, I didn't.

I grieved.

I wandered.

I questioned everything.

And again, without any sort of lead up, I'm feeling something I haven't felt in a long time.

Hunger.

Appetite.

It's quiet, but unmistakable.

I don't see a career path.

I don't have a shiny new identity waiting for me on the other side of this season.

If anything, I feel emptier than I've ever felt.

But for the first time in a while, that emptiness doesn't feel hollow.

It feels spacious.

Like there's finally room for something.

I don't know if the life I'm hungry for exists within the structures we've inherited.

Maybe it does.

Maybe it doesn't.

But I know enough now to pay attention when my appetite returns.

Because every time I've honored that quiet hunger instead of trying to explain it away, life has surprised me.

So for now, I'm staying here.

Empty.

Curious.

And starving.

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