Where the Tide Keeps Calling

There’s a particular flavor of chaos that hits when I’m waiting for something I care about. I can feel it buzzing under my skin like I’ve had three coffees and a revelation I’m not allowed to talk about yet. I tell myself I’m being patient, but we both know that’s a generous interpretation. What I’m actually doing is pacing the emotional hallway, opening the metaphorical fridge every ten minutes like new information might magically appear in there.
It’s not anxiety. It’s not insecurity. It’s just…me.
Me, trying to act like a grounded adult while my brain is already halfway down the street waving a flag that says “CAN WE GO NOW?!”
And the worst part is that I’m fully aware of it.
I can hear myself narrating the impatience as it happens, like some unhinged nature documentary:
“Here we observe Jessica in her natural habitat—pretending to wait calmly while vibrating at the frequency of a hummingbird with unresolved issues.”
It’s ridiculous.
It’s also extremely on brand.
And honestly? I kind of love that about myself.
And I think that’s the strangest part—how new it still feels to love myself exactly as I am.
It hits me in these small, ridiculous moments, like a skill I didn’t realize I was learning until I caught myself doing it.
I keep telling myself I’m “letting things unfold,” which is hilarious, because anyone who has ever met me knows I have the patience of a toddler waiting for cake. I try to play it cool, but inside I’m basically tapping my foot at the universe like, “Okay but… now would be wonderful.”
The funniest part is that I’m fully aware of how unhinged I get in these moments. Or maybe I’m just becoming more aware. I can almost watch myself doing it in real time, like I’ve stepped outside my body to narrate the whole spectacle. It’s the same energy every time—the buzzing, the pacing, the internal foot‑tapping—and yet it still surprises me how alive it feels.
Because that’s what this is, really. This restless anticipation, this inability to sit still when something meaningful is hovering just out of reach—it’s proof that I’m alive in my own life. That I care. That I’m invested. That something inside me is shifting again, and I can feel the tremor before the reveal.
Honestly, I think I like this version of myself—the one who’s impatient because she’s excited, not afraid. The one who paces because she’s growing, not spiraling. The one who knows something is coming and can’t help but lean toward it, even if she has to wait a little longer.
There’s something almost ceremonial about this kind of restlessness—like the universe hands me a drum and says, “March, but don’t run.” And of course I immediately start speed‑walking like a mom late for kindergarten round‑up. I’m trying to honor the pacing, but my body is already three steps ahead, humming with the kind of anticipation that feels like static and sunlight at the same time.
It’s funny how I pretend I’m above it. As if I’m not the same person who checks her phone like it’s a slot machine that might suddenly pay out. As if I don’t narrate my own impatience with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely watched too many documentaries and decided to become the subject.
But underneath the humor—beneath the buzzing, the pacing, the internal foot‑tapping—there’s a quiet truth I can’t ignore: something is shifting. Something is gathering itself. Something is coming into focus just beyond the edge of what I can name.
And maybe that’s why I’m marching forward like this.
Not because I’m trying to rush the moment, but because I can feel the moment rushing me.
So I keep moving, buzzing, marching—whatever this half‑feral rhythm is that my body insists on. Not rushing, not really. Just… following the pull. Letting the moment tug me forward the way the tide pulls at the shore, gentle but insistent, like it already knows where I’m supposed to go next.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
This restless aliveness.
This almost‑but‑not‑yet.
This sense that something is shifting in the walls of my life, even if I can’t name it without breaking the spell.
I don’t need to crack the code today.
Some things grow better in the dark.
Some truths sharpen themselves quietly before they’re ready to be held.
So I’ll let this one sit.
Let it hum.
Let it incubate in the background while I keep marching forward, pretending I’m patient, pretending I’m composed, pretending I’m not already listening for the next tremor.
Because I can feel it coming.
And when it arrives, I’ll be ready—or at least buzzing in the right direction.