Softcore Spiral

People think I’ve changed. And they’re not wrong, but not in the way they think.

For most of my life, I was a good girl. Not in a performative way, not in a “teacher’s pet” way, just… quietly compliant. I followed the rules, stayed out of trouble, never got arrested, never got into fights, never did anything that would justify the level of anxiety I walk around with. I wasn’t reckless or wild. I wasn’t even particularly difficult. But I was constantly defending myself, explaining my choices, and living as if I needed approval for decisions that weren’t hurting anyone but me.

I behaved the way I thought I was supposed to. I let other people’s expectations steer my life because that’s what you do when you’re trying to be good. And over time, that goodness turned into resentment. Then the quiet realization that I was deeply unhappy and running out of ways to ignore it.

The shift didn’t happen because I wanted to be different. It happened because I couldn’t survive the way I was living anymore. I had to stop people-pleasing and start listening to Kate, the real one. What does she want? What makes her feel steady? What makes her feel like she can breathe?

Before I became a full-time Auntie, I felt stuck. I was working at a haircut-only chain, a job I didn’t hate, but one where I could see the ceiling clearly, and it was low. I was one or two steps from the top with no real financial growth in sight, no forward momentum, no version of the future that felt better than the present. That realization sent me into a softcore spiral. I don’t do well with “this is it.” I’ve always seen what could be next, and suddenly there was nothing.

Now, my life looks different in ways that surprise even me. I work longer hours. I make more money. And somehow, I have more free time. No chaos scheduling. No last-minute shift coverage. Predictability, it turns out, is not boring- it’s stabilizing.

So I write. I write to heal myself, to understand myself, to map out who I am becoming. Writing didn’t change me. It revealed me.

Getting here has not been graceful. I fumbled conversations. I mishandled moments. I left my hair job by putting a letter and a key on the desk because I didn’t know how to do it any other way. Am I proud of that moment? Fuck no. Was it still the best decision I ever made? Fuck yes.

People think I’ve changed… Maybe so, but only out loud.