Day 29:

Some things are finally getting easier.
Others? Still feel like dragging bricks through mud.
(And not the cute Pinterest kind of bricks—the heavy, metaphorical ones no one wants to decorate with.)

It’s a strange paradox—how momentum can build in one area while another still feels stuck. For a long time, I couldn’t figure out why I kept losing steam. I’d get an idea, feel the spark, maybe even take a few steps… and then suddenly I’d stall out. Foggy. Frozen. Like I was fighting through invisible resistance.

And I was.

The truth is, carrying the emotional weight of a struggling relationship had been quietly draining me. (Like an emotional subscription box I never signed up for but kept paying anyway.) Even when I wasn’t directly dealing with it, it shaped how I moved through the world—what I prioritized, how much space I took up, how much energy I gave to keeping things steady. I didn’t always realize it, but that weight was dictating everything.

Now that I’ve set some of that down—at least enough to breathe again—I’m starting to notice something else:
This momentum? It’s mine.
And I’m finally learning how to protect it.

Today, I did what I’ve been trying to do for weeks. I got up, tidied the house—not because I had to, but because I wanted the energy in the space to match the energy I was cultivating inside. (Translation: sometimes scrubbing countertops feels like sage-ing my whole damn soul.) Even though I tell myself I’m leaving the household maintenance to the others now (and they are helping), I still love the finishing touches. The reset. The sweep. It’s part of how I claim space for myself.

Then I went out to the garage and pulled a little wooden shelf I’ve owned for over twelve years—a piece I’ve always meant to stain and never did. I removed the knobs, grabbed the brush, and finally gave it the finish it’s waited over a decade for. (At this point it qualifies as an antique… or at least a very patient roommate.)

Not because it needed to get done.
But because I wanted to.
Because it felt good.

That shelf is going into my workspace—the room I’m slowly transforming into a studio. The place I’ll film. The place I’ll write. The place I’ll build something real. Something mine.

While I was staining it, I had this quiet realization:
I’m a Tinker. Like, truly.
Tinker Bell-style.

(If you’ve ever had kids in the fairy phase, you know exactly what I mean.)

In the Tinker Bell series, fairies are born with different talents.
There are Garden-talents who make flowers bloom, Water-talents who shape streams, Fast-flying fairies who deliver messages, Light-talents who work with glow and shine, and Animal-talents who connect with creatures.

And then there are Tinkers.

They fix things. Make things. Piece together scraps and tools and imagination until something new works the way it wasn’t supposed to.

That’s what I do.

I rearrange. I restore. I reimagine. Whether it’s a room, a routine, a cabinet, or an entire damn life—I tinker. I always have.

And I’ve spent way too long pushing that part of myself down, trying to stay focused, efficient, disciplined. But here’s what I’m learning:
Denying my inner Tinker doesn’t make me more productive.
It just makes me feel less alive.

So today I let myself build something. Not for the algorithm. Not for the to-do list. But because it brought me back to myself.

And that—more than anything—is what I’m trying to build this whole life on.

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This 40-day journey was supposed to be about consistency.
But what I’m really learning is how much of my old life—my old rhythm—wasn’t actually mine. I was chasing some imagined version of a perfect person in a perfect world. (Spoiler: she doesn’t exist. And if she does, she’s probably very boring at parties.)
It looked good from the outside.
But it didn’t reflect me.

Now, I’m rebuilding from the inside out.

And it turns out? I need room to tinker.
Because it’s not just how I create—
It’s how I come alive.

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