Sometimes I might look towards what comes next with curiosity. At other times, I might find myself looking back at what could be left behind. Perhaps change can hold both.

 

When possibility feels uncertain ...

I’ve been wondering about what happens when change appears, even change I might want. There may be curiosity about what could become possible and, somewhere alongside it, another question. What might I lose? Perhaps familiarity, certainty, belonging, time, security, a role I know, a relationship as I currently experience it, or a way of doing things that feels familiar.

Perhaps even a version of myself

​

I wonder if, whether imagining change sometimes helps me notice the value of what is already here, things I might otherwise barely notice.

What might I be holding onto?

This question feels more interesting to me than deciding whether I am resistant to change.  Perhaps I’m holding onto the thing itself. Perhaps it is what sits beneath it:

security, identity, connection, competence,

predictability, choice, or simply the comfort of knowing where I stand ... or do I?

​

What might look like reluctance from one perspective, could look quite different from another. I wonder what I might notice if I stay curious about that difference.

 

Some might reflect something quite real.

Others might emerge from uncertainty.

Perhaps they can be both. I may not always know. Cognisant that a belief/ mind set of abundance can evoke openness, possibility and  a comfortable sense of enough. Yet - Scarcity ...

 

I wonder whether framing abundance as the alternative to scarcity makes things a little too simple. Some things may genuinely be limited.

Time, energy, resources and opportunities can change. Sometimes something valued may actually be lost

 

Perhaps abundance doesn’t need to mean believing that something better will appear.

Maybe it could simply leave open the possibility that what I can see from here may not be everything there is to see. There may be another possibility, another perspective,

another conversation or another question ...

or perhaps not. I like leaving room for that too.  Could both be present?

Perhaps I can value what I have and still wonder about something different.

Perhaps I can recognise possibility while also wondering about its cost. Hope and apprehension might sometimes arrive together. I might willingly leave something and still miss it. Maybe these experiences don’t need to cancel each other out.

 

I’ve been wondering about familiarity too.

We sometimes talk about the familiar as something to move beyond, comfort zones,

new beginnings, growth and change. Familiarity can carry information of its own.

Maybe something matters to me.

Maybe I worked hard to create it.

Maybe it connects me with people,

places or experiences I value.

Maybe it offers some steadiness.

Maybe I’m simply not ready to leave it behind.

Perhaps I don’t need to.

 

What might I want to carry with me?

Maybe change isn’t always about choosing

between what was and what might be.

Perhaps some things travel with us,

some change shape and some fall away.

Perhaps I won’t know which is which until later.  What I can, when I can

 

I keep returning to these words. I first thought about them in relation to kindness. Now I wonder whether they might hold something broader: capacity, timing and choice.

 

Some days possibility might feel expansive.

On others, I may have very little room for anything beyond what is already here.

 

Sometimes I might be ready to explore

Sometimes I might prefer the familiar

Sometimes I might not know

Perhaps capacity is part of the conversation too

 

The open notebook in this image keeps catching my attention. A blank page could represent possibility, and perhaps it could represent uncertainty

Something unfinished, something not yet decided, something that doesn’t have a name yet. It might hold things I want to preserve, things I might reconsider, things I haven’t encountered, things I’m not ready to write,

or simply nothing for a while. Perhaps the blank page doesn’t need to promise anything.

 

Maybe that’s what I like about it. Perhaps the future being unwritten is neither reassuring

nor unsettling on its own. Maybe how it feels, has something to do with where I’m standing when I look towards it. Something I’m wondering about ...

What feels important to me here?

What might I be hoping will stay?

What might I be concerned about losing?

What feels scarce from where I’m standing?

What might I not be able to see yet?

The wearing down of empaths