30 Days Of Radical Honesty Journalling Challenge Day 9: What part of my story do I still avoid, and what would happen if I let myself write it?

There’s a chapter I haven’t written yet. Not because I’ve forgotten it—but because I’m afraid of how it ends.

It’s the part where everything I’ve ever dreamed of… comes true.

And somehow, that terrifies me more than anything else.

I have spent a lifetime surviving. My muscles remember the sprint, my bones know the weight of the climb. My mind is built for damage control, for contingency plans, for calculating the fallout before the joy. I am a master at finding the cracks in the ceiling, even when the sun is pouring in.

I have turned agony into architecture. I have built an empire out of rubble. I have been burned and buried and still, I’ve risen—ash-streaked and radiant, every scar a constellation. My life is a testament to what’s possible when you refuse to stay broken.

But bliss? Pure, unshakable, nothing-left-to-prove bliss?

That’s unfamiliar. Unscripted. And that makes it feel unsafe.

What if there are no more battles to win? What if peace isn’t just possible, but mine? What if this next chapter is the one where I stop chasing and start receiving?

And what if I don’t know how to live inside that softness?

The dream—my truest, oldest dream—has always been writing. Even when I was too afraid to say it out loud. Even when I was told it wasn’t practical. Even when I buried it beneath “sensible” ambitions. It was always there, whispering. It was the only dream that felt like home.

And now I’m living it. I’m writing. Publishing. Creating. I’m being read. I’m being felt. I’m being seen.

And with every bit of success, a strange grief creeps in—a grief for the version of me that only knew how to strive. The girl who learned to outrun disappointment by never standing still long enough to risk joy.

I wanted to be the hermit from Teddy Ruxpin, remember? Tucked away with my books and my tea and the sound of my own breath. A little home. A quiet life. No one asking me to shrink or shout. Just peace. Just presence.

And maybe that’s what I’m building now.

Maybe that’s why it’s scary.

Because if I’m no longer trying to arrive—then where do I go? Who am I when I am not in pursuit?

Maybe that’s the part of the story I avoid.

Not the trauma. Not the pain. I’ve already written those. I’ve already bled them dry.

No—the chapter I avoid is the one where I am happy. Where I stay. Where I trust it.

But today, I cracked the spine.

And maybe tomorrow, I’ll keep writing.

And maybe, just maybe, the lingering happy ending I was too afraid to imagine… Is already waiting for me.

Peace, Love, and Inspiration,
~Britt Wolfe💚