This morning I woke up craving sugar. I had jam on toast with butter — a lot of it. And part of me knows I probably overdid it calorie-wise, but there’s another part of me that just needed it. Needed comfort. And I think that part — the one that took the wheel — was my inner child.

There’s something about mornings when we’re not quite anchored. Sometimes the child in us wakes before the adult does. It wasn’t really about sugar. It was about warmth, safety, sweetness — not in taste, but in feeling. I didn’t shame myself for it. I just noticed it. That’s new.

A little later, I found myself thinking about my old therapist — someone I haven’t seen in maybe six months. And the pull was strong. He’s a tutor at college, so maybe part of me is reaching for reassurance in a space that feels uncertain. Again, the wounded child. Searching for something familiar. Safe. Held.

And I think all of this is okay.

What I’m sitting with today is this question:
Should I be trying to meet all these needs myself, or am I still allowed to reach out?
Am I clinging to the idea of interdependence — of co-regulation — because I’m scared to fully stand on my own?
Or is that just the old narrative talking — the one that says being alone is dangerous, even insane?

I don’t know for sure. But I know I’m not actually alone. Not really. I meet people every day — in small moments, short interactions, even here, with you, reading this. There’s a connection in that, even if it’s quiet.

I guess part of this blog — this whole project — has become a place where I meet myself. But it’s also something more. A breadcrumb trail. A map.

Maybe someday, my family — or someone I used to know — will only be able to understand me through the words I leave behind here. That’s a strange feeling. But not a bad one.

I want them to see this:
Not perfection. Not answers.
Just someone doing the work.
Trying to stay honest.
Trying to come home to himself.

So here I am.
Noticing.
Letting it move through.
And moving on.