The strange part is, I did know things:
I didn’t want a loud place.
I didn’t want her cooking if she was tired.
But knowing what I didn’t want isn’t the same as knowing myself.
It’s like getting into a cab and the driver asks
🚕 Driver: “Where are you going?” and all you offer is
👩🏽 Me: “Anywhere is fine—just not the airport.”
There’s no direction in that.
No ownership.
No relationship with your own desire.
And that’s the place I was living from.