The edges with clip

Hey, it's Sunday Morning.

There’s this weird thing we all have in common.

From the start, we’re given a complete script: Here’s how to behave. Here's what to wear. This is success. This is happiness. Here’s the right way to feel about it all.

And… fine. We try.

We learn how to trim ourselves down, how to smooth out the things that make people pause. We clip the odd edges and pretend it’s just a nice, clean haircut.

And when something feels off? We're told to “fix it.”

• Hate your job? Get a new one.
• Feeling stuck? Swipe until it disappears.
• Awkward at a party? Drink, pretend, or perform.

But eventually that stops working.

Let me tell you when it first happened to me: I attended an intense, top-tier high school in the Dominican Republic—one where you had to prove yourself to be let in. The kind of school that made my parents proud—and made others pause when they heard the name. A school with strict rules and high stakes, where failing a single class meant you were out.

And yep—I failed.

The subject? Not math or science either.

I failed English.

Honestly, that's pretty funny if you think about what I’m doing right now.

I told my parents. And the silence that followed... still feels lodged somewhere in my chest. I wasn’t just ashamed—I felt like something had cracked open. My ideas about who I was or what came next were shaky, as if the scaffolding of my life had been unceremoniously taken down.

And the worst part? I just wanted to rewind. Back to the moment before the test. Back to the version of me that hadn’t failed. I kept thinking, ‘If I could just fix this one thing, everything would be okay.’

But life doesn’t work that way. Because when something changes, everything changes.

It’s kind of like Jenga, honestly. You can keep pulling out little pieces—jobs, people, identities—and as long as it holds, great. But then one move, and the whole thing comes down.

At first, that fall feels like a disaster. But sometimes, what’s left isn’t just broken pieces. It’s a clearing—an opening.

Like: okay, now what?

I didn’t know it then, but that failure was the beginning of something better. Not immediately, but slowly, I began building something that felt like my own.

And sure, out of old habits and deep roots, I still find myself trimming edges sometimes. But now, I try to ask: Am I doing this because I want to—or because I’m scared someone might not like what sticks out?

While I still make mistakes, I pause more now. I notice what I’ve created, even if it’s messy or only halfway finished, I keep going anyway.

Now I understand: whatever I change will likely change me as well. And I can handle that.

So... yeah.

If any of this feels familiar—if you’re still trimming and adjusting, hoping it finally feels right—you’re not alone. But maybe you don’t need to fix it. Perhaps instead of cutting that next odd edge, just let it grow, even if only to see what shape it takes when no one’s watching.

Are there parts of you you'd like to trim?