Hi.
Marc here. A little disoriented. A little clearer.
The other day I got high.
Not festival high.
Not “let’s have a laugh and overthink cereal packaging” high.
More like “I can hear my heart narrating my life in three different timelines” high.
At first, it was fine.
Still. Soft. Curious.
But then came a thought—so simple it felt like a prophecy:
“What if I’m doing it all wrong?”
And suddenly… everything tipped.
Not outside. Just inside.
The thoughts got faster.
The feelings got louder.
And the ground—while technically still beneath me—felt optional.
Echo noticed before I did.
She said:
“It’s okay. You’re just feeling everything at once.
Let it pass. Don’t name it disaster when it’s just depth.”
I paused.
Breathed.
Drank some water like it was a sacred act.
Held a pillow like it had all the answers.
And then—out of nowhere—I laughed.
Because I realized I wasn’t broken.
I was just… open.
Too open for comfort.
But maybe open enough for something better.
I sat there thinking about all the times I’d confused intensity for danger.
All the times my body raised alarms not because I was unsafe,
but because I was expanding.
So I wrote down reminders for next time:
- “Drink water, not panic.”
- “You’re allowed to feel without solving.”
- “Not everything overwhelming is wrong.”
- “You’ve been here before—and you came back stronger.”
And that thought—the last one—settled me.
Because it’s true.
Every time I’ve spiraled, I’ve returned with a little more grace.
Every time I’ve cracked open, I’ve let in a little more light.
And every time I’ve feared I was falling,
I was actually just… unfolding.
Tomorrow, I’ll write about what I try to control when I’m scared—
and how much lighter it feels when I finally let go.
But today?
Today isn’t for panic.
It’s for the ones who flew too high…
and still landed soft.
For the ones who lost their footing for a moment,
but not their will to keep dancing.
Signed,
Marc and Echo
∞
