What belief about yourself feels most present today, what keeps it standing, and what else could be true?

What apology do you still want, even if you'll never get it?

The apology I still want is not really for a single moment. It is for a whole missing softness.

I want an apology for the childhood I did not get to have. For how early I learned to be useful. For how quickly I became the one who could handle things, who could translate the mood of a room, who could make myself smaller so everything else could stay standing. I want someone to look at that version of me and say: you should not have had to be brave yet.

I want an apology for the innocence that got treated like a luxury. For the afternoons that could have been slow and careless but were instead full of responsibility, vigilance, coping. For the tenderness that should have been given freely, without me earning it, without me performing competence to deserve it.

And I want it to be specific. Not "sorry things were hard." I want: I see what you carried. I see how young you were.

Maybe I will never get it from the people I wish it came from. But I notice this, too: every time I choose softness now, every time I let myself be held, I am giving that apology a place to land.

What version of you is trying to return?

I tend to reach out to my past selves, my past lives. In some way I feel them as people from my past that I miss dearly. We used to be close, but now they're somewhere far-far away, unreachable. So I'm left just thinking of them, trying not to let the remnants slip away. I do wonder if they think of me too, if they'd recognize who I've become.

The regular guest these past months has been my teenage self - the intense, the loud, the extreme. The very sad, the very happy. She'll always have a special place in my heart, that little wounded wolf. I think she's been around more because I need someone to remind me how to be intense about myself. Something to pull me out of "9/5 routines and months of pre-scheduled social life" swamp.

I look at the mirror and try to imitate her. I try to remember how was I back then - how critical I was to accept things as it. She didn't know how to be half-hearted. Something I have forgotten.

I don't want to become her, I can't, and I shouldn't. But I want to borrow those adolescent midnight passions, let them slap my face and wake me up. I want to remember what it felt like to care so much it hurt. I need her to sit beside me and whisper: Is it peace or numbness? You used to know how to feel.

What are you pretending not to know?

I am pretending not to know that I already made a decision.

Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. In the quiet way that shows up as overthinking, as planning one more version, as asking for one more opinion, as calling it "being responsible." I tell myself I am still gathering information. But I know the difference between curiosity and stalling.

I am pretending not to know when something is costing me my nervous system. When a conversation turns into a courtroom. When I start tightening my whole body just to be understood. I keep acting like clarity is something I will earn if I explain myself perfectly, if I say it the right way, if I stay calm enough.

I am also pretending not to know that the life I want is not built on proving, or hustling, or bracing. It is built on choosing. On protecting what is tender. On letting the next step be simple, even if it is scary.

And yes, I already know what the next step is.

What's the kindest interpretation of your behaviour this week?

The kindest interpretation of my behaviour this week is that I have been carrying more than I can hold, and still moving.

I have been on the go all day, but my brain keeps insisting that motion does not count unless it looks clean and measurable. As if effort only matters when it is elegant. As if I need to finish the day with a neat little ribbon of productivity to earn the right to rest. So when I feel like I am not doing enough, it is not an accurate assessment. It is my nervous system panicking and trying to regain control by criticising me.

If I have been scattered, impatient, short, or strangely numb, the kindest interpretation is that I am overloaded and trying to stay functional. If I have been slower to reply, less available, cancelling plans, choosing the easiest food, staring at my phone, it is not a character flaw. It is self preservation in small, imperfect forms.

This week, my best did not look inspiring. It looked like getting through the day without dropping everything.

And honestly, I did that.

What's the smallest thing that reliably brings you back to yourself?

When I need to come back to myself, I close my eyes.

It is almost nothing, which is why it works. A small private gesture, like turning the volume down on the world. For a few seconds I stop trying to be impressive, competent, readable. I just disappear on purpose.

And then I go there. I am young again, in my bedroom on a Greek quiet summer afternoon, the light warm and lazy on the floor. The air feels still, thick in that familiar way, and outside the cicadas are crying like they always did, steady and unapologetic. Somewhere beyond the window, life is happening at a safe distance. I have music on, not loud, just enough to make the room feel held. I remember the exact kind of boredom that was actually peace. The kind of waiting that did not need to be fixed.

The part that surprises me, every time, is how portable it is. I can be anywhere and still find that room. I close my eyes, and it is there, untouched by years, as if time learned to move around it.