You're sitting on the edge of your bed, barefoot, staring at the open closet. One side is business casual—blazers, slacks, things you wore to an office you left behind. The other side is bohemian dreams—flowy dresses, hiking boots you've never worn, a hat from a trip you took alone last fall.

Your phone buzzes. It's your best friend, Maya.

'Hey, I saw a posting at the community center—they need someone to run their new creative wellness program. Thought of you.'

You sigh. 'Maya, I don’t even know what I like. How can I lead a program?'

'You don’t have to have it all figured out,' she says. 'You just have to show up. And maybe… try?'

Later that afternoon, you find yourself walking toward the center anyway. Not because you believe in it. But because staying home feels worse.

The door opens, and a woman with silver-streaked hair smiles. 'You must be the new facilitator. We’ve been waiting for you.'

You freeze. 'Waiting? No, I’m just here to look around—'

She steps aside. 'Well, come in. The group starts in ten minutes.'

Inside, five people sit in a circle—journals in hand, eyes full of hope, expectation, uncertainty. Just like yours.

You glance back at the door. You could leave. No one would blame you.

But something—curiosity, guilt, a flicker of courage—makes you step inside.