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📓 Wednesday, January 7, 2026 — 8:42 p.m.
It’s 8:42 p.m. I’m walking Simba around the yard on a leash—like the defender of galaxies, like he is. He’s wearing his green constellation harness, sniffing everything like it’s evidence: grass, old vans, the corners of the world.
He pauses at the motor-less, emptied-out 1967 Mustang—a body without an engine. A dream that used to move, now just a shell waiting.
And I’m standing there thinking how easy it is to become that Mustang—alive on the outside, hollow inside—if you let life’s courtroom run you.
Simba doesn’t care about life’s courtrooms. He doesn’t care about gavel sounds.
He’s here. He’s sniffing. He’s alive.
And I’m realizing the way out of the echo isn’t winning an argument with fear.
It’s movement. It’s presence.
It’s taking the leash in your hand and walking anyway.
Life has had me on a leash for a long time—walking me like it’s bitch.
So now I’m learning to do reps and slowly take control of one thing: my effort.
That’s the only control I will ever have.
Question: What’s your version of “taking the leash back”?
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