I Am Living on Delay

Dear Delyara, I delay not because I don’t care. Because I care enough that trying for real feels dangerous. So the dream gets postponed to next month, next year, the next better version of me, the next calmer season, the next time money feels safer, the next moment when children need less, the next whatever. And all the while, life keeps passing through me in smaller practical units that look responsible enough to hide the fact that I am deeply, privately dissatisfied with how little of myself has been given proper room to grow. Delay is a strange place to live. It looks sensible. It feels like grief.