I Call It "The Almost," The Hell Between Seeing Truth and Acting On It

Tuesday's piece about the botanist hit something deep.

The messages keep coming:

• "This is exactly where I am."

• "I felt seen."

• "I've been holding my breath for fifteen years."

But here's what I keep thinking about in the aftermath of that story: recognition is just the beginning. After you see the match burning in your hand, you still have to decide what to do about it.

And that's where most of us get stuck.

The Liminal Space of Almost

There's a particular kind of hell that lives between seeing the truth and acting on it. You know the place, where you've admitted to yourself that a job is killing you slowly, but you haven't updated your resume. Where you've acknowledged that a relationship stopped working years ago, but you're still having the same circular conversations. Where you can name exactly what's wrong, but can't quite bring yourself to do anything about it.

I’ve called this the Almost. You're almost ready. Almost brave enough. Almost willing to disappoint the people who've invested in your misery.

The Almost is where good intentions go to die.
It’s where we park our aliveness, waiting for permission that’s never coming.
For the perfect moment that doesn’t exist.
For someone else to make the hard choice so we don’t have to.

Our Body Keeps the Score

Here's what I've learned about living in the Almost: the body doesn't lie. It keeps meticulous records of every compromise, every time we've chosen safety over truth, every moment we've made ourselves smaller to fit a space that was never meant for us.

That tension in your shoulders? That's not just stress—that's stored "yes" when you meant "no."

The Sunday night dread that settles into your bones like weather? That's not just anxiety—that's your aliveness staging a weekly protest.

The way you hold your breath in certain rooms, around certain people, in certain conversations? That's not just nervousness—that's your body trying to take up less space because it's learned that your full presence isn't welcome here.

Your body has been trying to tell you something important. We've been managing it like background noise.

The Difference Between Healing and Feeling

We live in a culture obsessed with healing, but often terrible at feeling. We want the transformation without the transition. The breakthrough without the breakdown. The growth without the grief.

But sometimes the most healing thing you can do is stop trying to heal and just let yourself feel what's actually there. Not to fix it or solve it or make it productive, but to finally give it some space to breathe.

When the botanist got fired, he didn't immediately start interviewing. He sat with the strangeness of breathing deeply for the first time in decades. He let himself feel the relief alongside the terror. He gave his body permission to remember what it felt like to want something, really want it, instead of just enduring something.

The feeling came first. The action followed.

The Permission You Don't Need to Ask For

You don't need anyone's permission to stop betraying yourself. Not your family's, not your boss's, not your bank account's. The only permission you need is your own.

But what if today was the day you finally gave it? Not permission to have all the answers or make the perfect choice, but permission to feel whatever's been waiting underneath all that performing?

Permission to be tender instead of tough. To acknowledge that you're tired instead of pretending you're fine. To admit that you've been holding your breath and let yourself exhale, even if you don't know what comes next.

The match you're holding isn't trying to hurt you. It's trying to show you what's possible when you stop being afraid of your own brightness.

Today's meditation is designed for this moment. Ten minutes to stop trying to fix what's burning and just let yourself feel it. To give your body permission to exhale whatever it's been storing. And afterward, space to reflect and integrate on what wants to grow in the tender ground that's left.

Come sit with me.