There’s a kind of change that doesn’t arrive with a sound. You’re in the middle of it before you notice. Often, you don’t recognise what it was until it’s already behind you.
The Inner Map is where I write from inside that. Perfectionism. The slow rearranging of what matters. The difference between a life built around what looks good and one built around what is actually yours.
Not from the far side of resolution. From the middle, while something in it is still moving.
