It’s raining.
Summer rain — not cold, just… steady.
The kind that invites you to pause without demanding you retreat.

I’m sitting in my office.
The house is quiet.
I didn’t sleep perfectly — woke up for a couple of hours — but I’m at 68% body battery, which is the best I’ve been in days.

And that’s something.
That’s hope, actually — the quiet kind.

I’ve been living underwater.
Not visibly. Not dramatically.
But in that quiet way you do when you’re a single parent and your nervous system never really gets to reset.

You give everything.
You burn through the fuel.
You tell yourself, “I’ll rest soon,” but by the time you start recovering… it’s time to give again.

And I don’t want that dynamic anymore.

Not just because it’s exhausting.
But because when I live like that — when I only get brief gasps of air — it’s hard to be the version of me that I like being.
The one who connects.
The one who’s clear.
The one who’s not managing, but living.

So today… I’m being careful.

Careful not to overextend.
Careful to stay above 25% if I can help it.
Careful to respect the fact that when I’m well-resourced, everything — parenting, poker, people — feels more possible.

I might play a few tournaments.
Only if I feel focused. Only if I can stay in my A or B game.
If not, I’ll read. I’ll think. I’ll rest. I’ll let the rain do its thing.

Maybe I’ll go to the gym later.
Not to push myself. Just to move, to honour the energy I do have without dipping too low.

This isn’t about productivity.
It’s about presence.
About noticing the rare moments where I feel okay and not rushing to fill them.

Because survival mode taught me to grab oxygen and dive back down.
But I don’t want that anymore — not with my son, not with myself.

I want to stay above the surface long enough to actually breathe.
And maybe… to live.