It’s 8:30 in the morning. I’ve just woken up, and something feels clear.

Rollerblading—something that shaped two decades of my life, gave me my social base, my sense of rhythm, movement, even meaning—no longer pulls me like it used to.

I haven’t skated in three months. And I don’t miss it.

That realization doesn’t feel sad. Just true.

If I put skates on again, I’d probably enjoy it a little. But the desire to travel, to spend an evening chasing surface-level connection, or risk my body for a feeling that doesn’t land anymore… it’s just not there. The exchange no longer feels worth it.

And I think I understand why. I’ve felt real connection now—in counselling rooms, on quiet dog walks, in fleeting but genuine moments with strangers. And that’s changed everything.

Skating gave me access to something I needed at the time. A feeling of belonging. A way to connect. But now, I need more. Not more stimulation—more depth.

I don’t want to give my energy away just to feel less alone. I want presence. Reciprocity. Conversations that hold weight. And if that’s not there, I’m more than okay being alone.

It feels like I’ve quietly retired. Not with a dramatic goodbye, but with a soft letting go. A chapter closing on its own.

And maybe the most beautiful part?

I no longer have to risk my body to feel alive.
I no longer have to chase the past.
I can just… be here. Now.

Letting go doesn’t always feel like grief.
Sometimes it feels like waking up.