02/20/2026
I used to think the right terrain would feel obvious.
Warm.
Affirming.
Like relief.
What I’m learning is that, at first, it often feels… strange.
Quieter than I expect.
Less demanding.
Less performative.
Right terrain doesn’t rush me.
It doesn’t require a pitch.
It doesn’t ask me to explain why I am the way I am.
There’s no immediate chemistry.
No urgency to bond.
No pressure to prove value.
And because I’ve spent so long in places that required vigilance,
this calm can feel unsettling.
Right terrain doesn’t reward self-erasure —
but it also doesn’t reward over-functioning.
No one is impressed by how much I carry.
No one needs me to manage the room.
No one mistakes my quiet for disengagement.
I don’t feel “chosen.”
I feel unthreatened.
My body doesn’t brace.
My mind doesn’t rehearse exits.
I don’t leave conversations feeling smaller or louder than I was when I arrived.
Right terrain doesn’t ask me to become agreeable.
It doesn’t ask me to perform depth either.
It simply lets me be present without consequence.
That’s how I’m learning to recognize it.
Not by excitement.
Not by ease.
But by the absence of that old question:
What do I have to give up to stay?
If the answer is “nothing essential,”
then I know I’m somewhere different.
Somewhere I don’t have to disappear.
Somewhere purple trees don’t need defending.
Somewhere walking slowly is enough.
That’s the terrain I’m learning to trust —
even when it feels unfamiliar.
Especially then.