There’s a road just outside of town.

Nothing special—just cracked pavement and power lines, stretching out toward nowhere. But I used to think if I followed it long enough, I’d find something better.

Freedom. A fresh start. Some version of myself that didn’t feel so damn stuck.

I’ve been running for a long time.

Not literally—I never got in my car and just left. But in my head? Man, I’ve been gone for years.

Always looking for an exit, a way out, an excuse to not deal with the things that weigh me down.

The problem is, no matter how far you go—your ghosts always catch up.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about the things I’ve been running from.

The Fear of Being Average

I think this one started early.

Growing up, I always had this feeling that I was meant for more. That I wasn’t just supposed to live a normal, forgettable life. That I had something to prove.

To who? No clue. Maybe my dad. Maybe myself. Maybe some imaginary audience I built in my head—the one that’s always watching, always waiting to see if I’ll actually do something with my life.

The thing is, when you convince yourself that being “ordinary” is the worst thing that could happen to you, you start sabotaging anything that feels too normal.

Relationships. Jobs. Stability. Anything that makes life feel settled.

Because settling feels like admitting defeat. Like saying, yeah, I guess this is all there is.

So I run.

From the idea of a 9-to-5. From relationships that start feeling too predictable. From anything that might trap me in a life I don’t really want.

The only problem?

I don’t actually know what I do want.

And maybe that’s worse than being average—being lost.

The Ghosts of Who I Used to Be

I think we all have old versions of ourselves we don’t want to face.

The kid who believed in things. The teenager who swore he’d never turn into the kind of adult he’s becoming. The person who loved someone and messed it up.

Sometimes, I swear I can feel those old versions of me still lingering in the places I left them.

In the parking lot where I first kissed her.

In the room where I stayed up all night writing songs I never finished.

In the backseat of an old car, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d ever get out of this town.

I run from them because I don’t like what they remind me of.

That I used to dream bigger.

That I used to feel things deeper.

That I used to believe in something more than just surviving the day.

But no matter how far I go, they’re still there. Waiting.

Because you can’t outrun your past. You can only face it.

And maybe it’s time I stop running.

The People I’ve Let Down

This one’s heavy.

I don’t talk about it much, but I carry it everywhere.

Every broken promise. Every missed call. Every time I was too caught up in my own shit to be there for someone who needed me.

I like to tell myself I don’t care what people think.

But I do.

Especially when it comes to the ones who believed in me. The ones who looked at me and saw something worth saving, even when I didn’t.

And I hate that I’ve disappointed them.

That I’ve let friendships fade. That I’ve shut people out. That I’ve been so focused on trying to fix myself that I didn’t realize I was leaving wreckage behind me.

I don’t know if you can ever fully make up for the ways you’ve hurt people.

But I think admitting it is a start.

And maybe, if I stop running, I can start fixing what’s left.

The Life I Could’ve Had

There’s always that version of your life that could’ve been.

The person you could’ve ended up with. The path you could’ve taken. The dreams you let slip away because you were too scared, too tired, or just too distracted to chase them.

I think about mine a lot.

Sometimes, I see flashes of it—like a parallel universe playing out in the corner of my mind.

A version of me that actually left town years ago. That chased music instead of making excuses. That didn’t let fear or self-doubt win.

And I wonder: Would he be happier?

Or would he still find something to run from?

I don’t know.

But I do know this: the life I could’ve had isn’t coming back.

All I have is this one.

And I don’t want to keep running from it.

What Happens If I Stop?

That’s the real question, isn’t it?

What happens if I stop running?

If I stop making excuses. If I stop telling myself I need to be somewhere else, someone else, to finally be happy.

What if I just sat with myself, exactly as I am, and figured out how to make this life work?

Maybe I’d realize I don’t need to leave to feel free.

Maybe I’d start fixing the things I broke.

Maybe I’d finally let myself be happy, even if it’s not the grand, world-changing kind of happiness I once thought I needed.

I don’t have the answers yet.

But I think I’m ready to stop running long enough to find out.

And that’s a start.

—J