On Not Being Wise

I wanted to write something wise today.

I wanted to feel sharp and full of insight, to meet the world with clarity and grace, to offer something that made someone pause, breathe, and feel a little more whole. That was the plan. That’s always the plan.

But instead, I’m sitting in a kind of slump. My mind scattered at work. My energy low. I met a friend for lunch and found I couldn’t quite bring forward the version of me I admire — the one who knows how to listen well, who asks the right questions, who alchemizes conversation into insight. I felt flat. Quiet. Half-present. I feel overwhelmed by commitments my heart made in earnest and now feel heavy. I witnessed another friend’s life seem to fall apart with nothing I could do to help. I feel small. I feel tired. I feel helpless. I feel fine.

I’ve been trying to finish a Substack piece for days, but every draft feels slightly off — like putting on a coat that almost fits. The kind of writing that sounds true but not mine. Words that don’t quite come from the center of me.

And so I’m writing this instead. I’m writing from here, not from the place I wish I was.

Because here is what I have. And here, as it turns out, is still sacred.

We love the parts of ourselves that feel bright and alive — the clear channel, the inspired voice, the friend who shows up with perspective and presence. But what about the part that doesn’t quite land? The part that forgets the thread mid-sentence, that feels foggy and unhelpful?

It’s easy to associate our worth with our usefulness. With how much wisdom we can offer. With how well we perform our becoming.

But today reminded me — sometimes the most meaningful thing I can do is not to perform, or to polish, or to push through — but to stay.

Stay in the slump. Stay in the not-enough. Stay in the human mess of it all.

Not to wallow. But to witness.

Because even here — especially here — I am real.

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There is a pressure, I’ve noticed (maybe self induced), in the spiritual and creative worlds — to always be arriving. To always be in some state of revelation or transmission. But life isn’t structured that way. Not real life. Not embodied, integrated life.

There are seasons, even within a day.

Today, my internal weather feels like overcast and slightly damp. Not dramatic. Not despairing. Just a little off. The kind of day where the fruit won’t ripen and the light doesn’t quite fall right.

And there’s something vulnerable about admitting that — especially in a culture that rewards clarity, resolve, and upward motion. There’s something tender about writing, “I didn’t feel wise today,” and letting that be enough.

But I want this space to be real. And today, this is the real.

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The truth is, I don’t want to fake being wise.

I don’t want to become someone who always seems like they have it together, who only shares the polished parts. I want my humanity to show through. Not in a curated, “look-how-vulnerable-I-am” way, but in an honest way. A way that makes room for others to exhale, too.

Because I think we’re all tired of the pressure to be something more than what we are in this exact moment.

I think we’re hungry for proof that being present — even when you feel empty or unclear — is still participation in the sacred.

I think we need more spaces that say: You don’t have to be on fire today. You don’t have to have the answer. You don’t have to bring the most resonant sentence of your life into being. You just have to show up. You just have to stay.

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So today, I’m staying.

I’m letting this moment be enough.

I’m writing from the middle of the fog, not after it lifts. I’m trusting that honesty, not eloquence, is the medicine.

And maybe this is wisdom, in its own quiet way — the kind that doesn’t wear robes or hold a microphone, but the kind that kneels down next to you when you’re struggling to remember your own worth.

The kind that whispers:

It’s okay if you’re not shining today.
It’s okay if you’re not useful today.
It’s okay if you’re just… here.

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I don’t know if this will resonate. I don’t know if this will be one of those pieces that gets shared or saved or remembered. But I do know it’s true. And sometimes, that’s the only success that matters.

If you’re reading this in your own version of a slump — if you too feel a little off, a little behind, a little not-quite-yourself — I want to say: I see you. I honor you. There is no shame in being tired. There is no failure in being in-process.

You’re not broken.

You’re just human. And human is more than enough.

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To the part of me that felt defeated today:
Thank you for showing up anyway.
Thank you for being willing to be seen, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Thank you for reminding me that love doesn’t only flow when I’m at my best — it flows through the cracks, too.

Tonight I light a candle for the days that don’t go as planned.

I write for no reason but to return to myself.

And in that, maybe I’ve arrived after all.