Two projects have been haunting me for what feels like an eternity.
I’m not exaggerating — one’s been sitting there for over three years (dutch companies, you monster), and the other one, california love, has been quietly judging me from the corner of my to-do list for more than a year.
They’re the kind of projects that somehow get heavier the longer you avoid them. Like they grow extra layers of guilt and shame, and just thinking about them makes my jaw clench a little.
Every time I thought about starting, I just… didn’t.
I’d open a browser tab and immediately get overwhelmed, distracted, tired, or suddenly decide that now was the perfect time to organize my sock drawer. I kept telling myself I needed something — clarity, a better system, more time, a nudge, a reason. But also? I was waiting until I magically became a different person.
Someone who… finishes things.
Someone who’s not me.
But something shifted. A little.
Not dramatically, not with trumpets or epiphanies. Just enough to do a couple of things. I got the car smog tested. I found my debit card so I can call the bank (the Dutch one, naturally, because everything has to be international and complicated). That might not seem like much, but for me, that’s movement.
That’s something.
That’s a spark.
I started asking myself some questions, not the practical kind, like “What’s the next step?” because I already knew the answer.
No, more like — why am I not doing this? What do I need? Who do I need to be? What would finishing this even mean? And the answers were weirdly comforting.
I’m not lazy.
I’m not broken.
I just… have parts of me that want this done and parts that don’t.
And the parts that don’t aren’t evil; they’re just tired.
Scared.
Overwhelmed.
They’ve been through some shit and they’re trying to protect me in the only ways they know how which involves procrastination and mild self-sabotage.
And yeah, part of me still wants these projects to mean something.
Like, I want to turn them into art somehow — make two messy posters with scribbled notes and burned edges, title them “California Love” and “Dutch companies,” and either hang them up or set them on fire in some ridiculous but satisfying ritual.
Because if I’m going to wrestle with my resistance this much, I at least want to make something out of it.
But the truth is, I’m no longer waiting for it to feel good.
Or to feel like the right time has come. I’m just trying to show up.
Inch toward done.
And be proud, even if it took me way too long, even if no one claps, even if the only reward is not having to think about these damn projects ever again.
And maybe that’s enough.
That may be the whole point.