Running in Place

I can’t help feeling like everything is at stake,

like one wrong move will collapse

every fragile thing I’ve been balancing.

So I lock myself inside my head—

bolt the doors,

pace the floors,

run in place until my lungs burn

and call it preparation.

I don’t freeze because I don’t care.

I freeze because I care too much.

Because every decision feels loaded,

every choice feels permanent,

every step forward feels like a gamble

I can’t afford to lose.

My mind turns into a track meet—

thoughts sprinting,

worst-case scenarios stretching,

my heart pounding like it’s doing something heroic

while my life stays exactly where it is.

I analyze.

I overthink.

I tear every option apart

until nothing feels safe enough to touch.

I tell myself I’m being careful,

that caution is wisdom,

that staying still is strategy.

But really—

I’m terrified.

Terrified of messing it up.

Terrified of proving every fear right.

Terrified that trying and failing

will hurt worse than never trying at all.

So I run in place.

Sweat, strain, panic—

no distance covered.

Just exhaustion layered on top of regret,

momentum without movement,

noise without progress.

I scream inside my head

while the world keeps going,

unaware that I’m fighting a war

no one can see

and losing ground by standing still.

I’m angry at the pressure.

Angry at myself.

Angry that wanting something badly

can paralyze you just as easily

as not wanting anything at all.

And maybe the cruelest part

is knowing this isn’t living—

it’s containment.

It’s fear disguised as discipline.

It’s survival mode

with nowhere to go.

I don’t need another plan.

I don’t need another rehearsal.

I need the courage to stop running in place

and accept that movement—

real movement—

will always feel dangerous

to someone who’s been hurt before.

But I’m so damn tired

of sprinting nowhere,

of locking myself away

from the very life

I’m trying so hard

not to lose.