Standing in the kitchen again

I was standing in front of the open fridge for the third time in ten minutes. The light was humming, and I just stared at the same few things, like maybe the answer would appear between the milk and the leftovers. It wasn't about hunger, really. It was about the space between deciding and just... doing something.

The weight of small choices

Sometimes the smallest things feel the heaviest. Picking a movie, or what to have for lunch, or whether to go for a walk now or later. It's not that any option is wrong. It's more that you can feel the minutes ticking by while you're stuck in your own head.I think it's the potential for regret that does it. The silly worry that you'll pick the 'lesser' snack and spend the next hour thinking about the one you didn't choose. It makes a simple afternoon feel like a high-stakes negotiation with yourself.

Letting something else decide

There's a kind of relief in handing the reins over for a second. Not to fate, exactly, but just to chance. It takes the pressure off being the sole architect of your own immediate happiness. The outcome matters less than feeling like the process was fair.It's like flipping a coin. In that moment it's spinning in the air, you often realize what you're secretly hoping for. But sometimes, you don't. And accepting whatever lands feels like a small act of peace.

A quiet reset

Using a wheel for this isn't about finding the perfect answer. It's more about breaking the loop of thought. It gives you a nudge when you're paralyzed between perfectly fine options.

Moving forward, gently

Afterwards, you just go with it. You make the tea, or you put on the show, or you step outside. The action itself is what finally clears the air, not the deliberation that came before it.