I was all cozy, wrapped up in an old blanket on the balcony of this fairytale 150-year-old house. From up here, the Caucasus Mountains looked like they were holding an endless sea of white. The forests rolled out like green velvet, and I watched the sun just starting its drop behind them.

I knew more beautiful views existed. Instagram promised it; travel blogs boasted it. But in that moment, my gratitude was so complete that I truly believed no soul had ever been dealt a more perfect hand.

“This is one of the best days of my life”

The words came out before I could stop them. A confession. And once it was out, I immediately wanted to pull it back. Not because it wasn’t true. But because it was so simple. So unearned. Where was the conquest? The hard-won triumph that always defined my “best days”? This gentle contentment felt like a self-betrayal.

Familiar images flooded in: mountain summits, impossible feats survived, those moments when I’d pushed my body and mind past their absolute limit. Those were the real ones, a whisper reminded me. Remember? And I did. They were magnificent. But this moment, now, was magnificent too.

A year ago, I limped down a mountain I never should have climbed. Injured, my body screaming with every step. Yet even then, a part of me was already plotting the next peak. Pain didn’t matter. Survival was the only proof I had that I was alive.

I remember laughing at myself on that empty trail. ‘Jesus, can’t you just rest? Take a walk without the need for bloodshed?’ But I know the truth: I am addicted to the edge. When life gets too easy, I feel like a caged animal. Sometimes I’d fill a backpack with rocks just to make a walk punishing

So what is this? I’m terrified—truly terrified—of abandoning myself. This gentle contentment isn’t different; it’s dangerous. It threatens everything I am

Yesterday, aka: my dangerous day:

Up before dawn, I made strong coffee and began my prayers and meditation, continuing the ritual until the light was full. Then, I made breakfast, ate in the garden with the cats winding around my legs, their purring the only sound I needed. Wrote for an hour, then shouldered my bag with leftover food for the stray dogs I was certain to meet.

I chose to walk to the monastery (of course I did) while everyone else drove the narrow, winding road that cut through the mountain. The monastery  was ravishing. I explored every corner, finally sitting in the cemetery that stretched vast and green over the valley below. I sat there. No agenda, no thoughts, only breathing and being.

I bought produce from the monks working their fields, then ducked into their little café when the drizzle started. I sat outside anyway, savoring dessert and a double espresso that tasted like it came from hands that actually gave a damn. Maybe it was in my head, but I didn’t care.

A big tabby wandered over, bold as anything. I held out my hands, and he claimed my lap like he’d been waiting for me all day. We sat there together, this wild cat trusting me enough to sleep while I stroked his fur and grinned at nothing in particular. Time became irrelevant.

When the rain picked up, I still wanted to walk back. Fifty minutes is nothing when you’ve spent your life on foot. Back at the town center, it was warmer, drier.

I went hunting for the museum but Google Maps had other plans, sending me on an hour-long tour of architecture I hadn’t asked for but didn’t mind getting lost in. Then I heard it, this voice, rough and hypnotic, pulling me like gravity toward a tiny park.

Salt-and-pepper, dark shades, guitar in his hands. I dropped my bag and listened, letting my body move however it wanted. When he finished, I cheered loudly. At first there was a hush, then everyone joined in, cheesy as hell, I know, but real and perfect. Came the next song, the whole park turned into an impromptu party.

Finally found the museum when I stopped looking so hard. Spent as long as I wanted there, then passed a tone^[1] on my way home. The baker, flour-dusted and grinning, handed me two loaves straight from the oven, burning hot and wrapped in paper. I couldn’t wait, tore chunks off while walking, burning my tongue and not caring because it tasted like everything good about being alive.

Home: cherry tomatoes, butter and Matsoni^[2], simple food, those two loaves demolished, hot shower, then the balcony with my book until dark.

Now, Earl Grey steaming in my hand, I sit among trees that existed before my grandparents met. That happiness from yesterday still lives in my chest, warm and stubborn, refusing to fade. All I want is to exist here in this pocket of paradise and write until the words finally empty me out.

But the dread hasn’t left either. It sits coiled in my gut like a patient snake waiting for permission to strike. And it’s absolutist. Black or white. All or nothing. Surrender everything you are, or cling to it with bloody fingernails. It recognizes no treaties, accepts no compromise.

Every instinct screams at me to do what I’ve always done: draw battle lines. Let reason hack through the confusion until only one truth stands victorious. It’s how I’ve survived every crisis, conquered every doubt, with the brutal efficiency of someone who believes problems exist to be solved, not lived with.

But not this time.

This time, I’m going to try something that terrifies me more than any mountain: I’m going to let it be. Let myself unfold like something organic and unhurried, a flower that doesn’t apologize for blooming at its own pace. I won’t choose sides in this unnecessary war

Instead, I’ll make space. Stay curious. Let whatever wants to emerge, emerge, without forcing it, without rushing it, without needing to understand it first.

The tea has gone cold in my cup. Tomorrow, somewhere else. That’s all I know.

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[1] In Georgia, a “tone” (also spelled “toné”) refers to a special type of deep, round, clay oven used for baking traditional Georgian bread. It’s essentially a Georgian version of a tandoor

[2] Caspian Sea Yogurt (Matsoni, Matzoon) is a dairy product of Armenian (and Georgian) origin. It has been a staple food in the Caucasus regions for centuries