I want several lives

Who told us we only get one?

Some mornings, I want slowness.

A lie-in with the window cracked open. Coffee in bed. A playlist I made for no one but myself. I want to walk through the park without checking the time. Buy flowers I don’t need. Text a friend just to say I thought of them.

A day that unfolds gently. No deadlines. No decisions. Just time to think, or not think. To be quiet without explaining it. To feel like I have space again.

Other days, I want the opposite.

A packed calendar. Shoes that weren’t made for walking. Getting ready to go out when everyone else is heading home. Cold drinks, loud music, stories I’ll half-remember in the morning. I want to feel electric. Surrounded by people I barely know, but somehow love anyway. Swept up. Like anything could happen and maybe it will.

Both of those versions feel real to me. Depending on the day, I want one more than the other.

It’s not a contradiction I’m trying to resolve. It’s just how I’ve always been.

I want stillness and movement. Depth and lightness. Big love and total independence. I want to be known completely and also left alone. I love the freedom of an empty calendar and the thrill of plans that spill into the morning. Some days I want roots, other days I want flight. And I’ve never felt the need to apologise for that.

There’s never been one neat version of me. And I don’t think there needs to be.

But the world likes clarity. Certainty. Cohesion. And so, for a while, I thought I might need to pick. Pick a lane. Pick a personality. Pick a life that makes sense to everyone else.

Because we’re taught that decisiveness equals maturity. That consistency is confidence. That if you’re still imagining new lives, maybe you haven’t found the right one yet.

But what if that’s the wrong lens entirely?

What if it’s not confusion, it’s capacity?

What if I’m not undecided, but expansive?

I think a lot of people are walking around pretending to be sure. Saying the thing that sounds polished, while secretly wondering if they got it wrong. I think a lot of us want permission to be uncertain. To say, I know what I love, but I still want more. I’ve made a life I like, but I dream of others too.

Because wanting more than one thing isn’t greedy. It’s human.

You can love your life and still long for the versions that never happened. You can be grounded and still ache for reinvention. You can say “this is enough” and still ask, gently, “but what else?”

We treat longing like a weakness. A problem to be fixed. But what if it’s just curiosity in disguise? What if desire isn’t a sign we’re lost, but a sign we’re paying attention?

I used to think my craving for opposites made me difficult to understand. Now I think it makes me honest. I’m not interested in choosing between the versions of myself. I want to hold space for all of them.

Because some lives aren’t opposites. They’re just taking turns.

The truth is, I’ve changed my mind a thousand times. I’ve made decisions I was sure of, then walked them back. I’ve been in love with ideas that eventually loosened their grip. I’ve been steady and restless, brave and scared, grounded and undone. Sometimes all in the same week.

And I don’t think that makes me flaky. I think it makes me real.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the quiet power of letting two things be true at once. Of loving someone and needing space. Of feeling grateful and still wanting more. Of being proud of yourself and unsure what comes next. Of having a day that’s light and low, productive and pointless, boring and beautiful all at once.

That’s not confusion. That’s wholeness.

So no, I’m not here to choose between versions of myself. I’m not chasing a final form. I’m just building a life that makes space for duality. For dreams that shift, and identities that stretch, and truths that might not always match.

And if that looks a little inconsistent from the outside, so be it.

Because I’ve never wanted just one life. And I’m done pretending I should.