the space between posts
Sometimes the hardest person to unfollow is yourself.
My phone rested on the edge of the desk, glowing like a challenge. TikTok’s icon pulsed softly, waiting. Just one post. That’s all it would take, right?
Just one post, and I’d be back.
My thumb hovered over the screen—frozen by doubt.
It had been months since I last posted. Everything felt different now. Back then, ideas buzzed like fireflies in my mind—bright, fleeting sparks begging to be caught.
Creating used to feel natural, like breathing. It wasn’t work. It was life.
And yet now, it all felt... distant. Faded. Like staring at an old photograph and wondering if that person was ever really me.
Burned-out hands cradle a dream,
once alive, now flickering, gasping.
Memories hum songs of when sparks flew freely—
but the ember is cold,
and the future’s pulse beats faster than the footsteps chasing it.
Do you reignite, risking ash and exhaustion,
or let it fall quiet, still and unlit,
watching the parade pass without you,
as creation moves on without turning back?
The memory slipped in, uninvited.
I could still see the sunlight flooding through the windows that morning, every corner of the room bathed in warm light. My coffee had been perfect, steam curling lazily in the air like a silent promise that everything was going to be okay.
I didn’t plan to record that day. I just... talked.
No script. No filters. Just raw, jagged pieces of myself spilling into the lens. I talked about loneliness, about the ache of feeling invisible, and how healing isn’t about fixing the pain—it’s about learning to live alongside it.
Even after recording, I sat there, staring at the screen, my thumb hesitating over the post button. Was this post too personal? Was it too much?
But then a quiet voice whispered, What’s the worst that could happen?
So I hit Post.
And the numbers came—first slowly, then all at once.
Notifications buzzed like an electric storm, each ping a jolt of validation. Comments flooded in: “I needed this today.” “You put into words what I couldn’t.” “I thought I was the only one.”
Each message felt like oxygen in my lungs. For the first time in years, I didn’t just feel heard—I felt seen.
But that was then.
Now, the app felt like a door I no longer knew how to open.
I leaned back in my chair, the leather groaning beneath me. At the time, the new leadership role at work seemed like the right move—growth, stability, security.
I thought I could juggle everything—work, family, TikTok, and Healing Thoughts.
But every time I leaned into one thing, I dropped something else. The cracks began to show. And eventually... everything just slipped through my fingers.
I remembered the weekend I sat there, camera ready, waiting for inspiration. But instead of words, there was only silence. A suffocating silence that wrapped around me like a second skin, until I couldn’t breathe.
And now here I was again—staring at the same app, waiting for that old spark to come back. But it didn’t.
All I felt was... fear.
The air thickened again, heavy with everything I hadn’t said, as Ego stepped into the room.
Ego leaned against the desk, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “You think you can just walk back in? They didn’t stop. And now look at you.”
I clenched my jaw. “I needed a break.”
Ego scoffed, rolling its eyes. “Everyone needs a break. They just don’t take one. They push through. And that’s why they’re ahead.”
The knot in my chest twisted tighter.
I could see them—the creators I used to grow alongside. Their profiles polished, their content perfect. They kept moving. They didn’t stop.
And me? I... disappeared.
Shadow stirred from the edges of my mind, curling through my thoughts like smoke. Its voice was soft, insidious. “You’re not stuck. You’re pretending to be.”
I pressed my hands to my face, the weight of everything threatening to crush me. “I’m not pretending. It’s just... harder now.”
Shadow chuckled, its laugh a low, knowing sound that slithered down my spine. “That’s because you’ve been running. And now, everything you buried while you were busy ‘taking a break’... it’s catching up.”
Memories flickered—late nights spent writing Healing Thoughts, the moments I broke down between chapters, crying in the dark. The things I put into that book were pieces of myself I hadn’t touched in years—pieces I thought I’d forgotten. But they were still here, waiting.
Ego snapped, its voice sharp as a whip. “Don’t listen to this. Stay in control. Stay positive. You’ve been here before. You know what to do.”
Shadow’s grin spread, sly and patient. “Control? Oh, love... Control is just fear in a nicer suit. And you’ve been wearing it for far too long.”
My thumb hovered over the screen—Delete Account, was just one tap away.
Ego’s voice rose in panic. “Stop. Don’t be stupid. If you delete it all, everything you built will be gone.”
Shadow leaned in closer, voice smooth as silk. “Or maybe... that’s exactly what you need. No weight. No history. Just... freedom.”
The idea of deleting everything wrapped around me like a drug.
No more pressure. No more comparison.
Just silence.
But then Ego’s voice cut through, sharp and desperate. “Do you really want to be forgotten? Because that’s what will happen.”
Shadow hummed, amused. “And maybe being forgotten is the only way you’ll ever feel light again.”
The room seemed to tilt, the walls pressing in. I wiped my clammy palms on my jeans—to little avail. My heart raced, and I couldn’t tell if it was fear or hope pumping through my veins.
“I just... I just want it all to stop.”
Shadow’s voice softened, almost kind. “Then let it. Stop holding on.”
Ego lunged, frantic. “No! You have to fight. This isn’t the end—unless you let it be.”
Shadow grinned, satisfied. “Let it end. Watch it all fall apart. That’s where freedom begins.”
My thumb trembled over the screen.
One tap—post or delete—and it would all be over.
Then—buzz.
The screen flickered. A red notification blinked at the top—a comment on an old video was posted.
“You were one of my first follows. Your willingness to share yourself and your life helps so many. Thank you.” — Ryenne the Catalyst (TikTok)
Shadow chuckled, dark and content. “See? You’re never free. Not really.”
Ego leaned closer, smug. “They’re still watching. You still matter. Now—stay in control.”
The room felt smaller, the air heavier. My heart pounded, confusion knotting with hope and fear.
I shrugged, “What if I can’t do it again?”
Shadow’s voice was a lullaby, dark and gentle. “Then don’t. Let it go.”
Ego’s voice snapped back, sharp and desperate. “You’ll regret it if you do.”
Shadow chuckled softly. “Or maybe... this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. Lost.”
The screen dimmed again.
My thumb hovered, trembling between two choices.
Delete. Post.
Was it a lifeline—or a trap?
And the worst part?
I still didn’t know which one scared me more.
—Ryan Puusaari
P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!
P.P.S. "The internet moves faster than regret, but both have a way of catching up."
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It will bring to the surface the stuff your inner child tucked away.
Are you tired of running?
This is your shot to smash the old cycles and rewrite the script with something real—self-love that sticks. One reflection at a time, you’ll inch closer to freedom.
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