Mal still sleepy under the covers

It’s 5:30 a.m. The birds are up. The sun is not. I'm here, ready for my first bike ride with Empire Tri. There’s that beautiful stillness that comes before the world has woken up, and it reminds me of another morning—not long ago—when I realized something was missing. 

 I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t spiraling. I wasn’t even bracing. What was gone, and still is, was the dread. 

 It didn’t announce its departure. It didn’t slam the door or leave a note. It just… quietly stepped back. And suddenly I was there—me, with my coffee, my breath, my body intact. Mal still sleepy under the covers. The sun spilling across the floor like nothing urgent had ever existed. 

 Because so many of us don’t even realize dread is the default… until it’s gone. Until one slow morning whispers, “This could be normal.” And it feels both revolutionary and grief-filled at the same time. 

 The more I let go of trauma, the more I see myself,the more I allow myself to feel instead of just rushing to fear as a protective default to ensure I don't open myself up to harm… For so long my life has been shaped by surviving instead of living. I didn’t know who I was without the adrenaline. Without the pressure to prove I was worthy. And it feels so good to step away from that. 

 But even in the calm, there’s guilt. I feel it when I wake up at 6 a.m. and take a leisurely stroll with Mal at 7, moving slowly, comfortably. There's still a lingering voice in my head that tells me I should be rushing. That I should be battling through a commute. That I should be at a desk before the sun comes up, proving something. Even when I was doing my job, I still felt like I need to LOOK like I was doing my job. That’s not work—that’s performance. And I’m ready to step off that stage. 

For years, my sense of self was welded to competition. Could I be the man my brother was? Could I be stronger, grittier, more aggressive than the person in the cubicle next to me? And could I do all of that in four-inch heels, hair down to my waist but pinned in a bun, the tightest pencil skirt in the office, and a Burberry purse I’d spent half my bonus on? 

 Could I outperform both masculinity and femininity on no sleep, too much coffee, and the irrational wrath of a white-faced hornet—delivered with the driest irony you’d find in the back corner of a very sad Williamsburg dive? I replaced genuine identity with disaffection and managed to fool everyone but myself. 

 But I’m not performing anymore. I’m not proving. I’m not bracing for impact just because the world taught me to flinch. 

 I’m letting the adrenaline leave my body. I’m letting softness take its place. I’m letting Mal stay curled under the covers while I drink my coffee in peace. 

 And I’m letting that be enough.