From the Front Porch
Amy was 28 when she made the deal with herself.
"Just until the kids are in school. Then I'll get back to writing."
She had notebooks full of half-finished stories. Ideas she'd wake up thinking about. A voice she was just starting to find.
But then came the kids. And the kids needed her.
So she put the notebooks in a box. Shoved them in the closet. "Just for now."
The kids started school.
But then there were activities. Homework. Being room mom. Chaperoning field trips. Volunteering. Being present. Being available. Being the mom everyone said she should be.
"Once they're in middle school, I'll have more time."
Middle school came. Then high school. Then college applications.
Then they were gone.
Twenty years.
Last month, Amy pulled the box out of the closet. Sat down at the kitchen table with her old notebooks.
Opened the first one.
And started crying.
Not because the writing was bad. Because she didn't recognize the person who wrote it.
That woman... the one with ideas and dreams and something to say, she's gone.
Amy spent 20 years being "mom." And she was good at it. Great at it, even.
But somewhere in those 20 years, she stopped being Amy.
And now the kids are gone. And she's sitting at an empty table with notebooks full of someone else's dreams.
You know someone like this, don't you?
Maybe you are someone like this?
The compromise was supposed to be temporary.
"Just for now" became her entire identity.
You think that won't be you?
Amy thought that too.
A Hard Truth
You didn't choose this life.
You just never chose to stop living it.
"Just for now" is the most expensive lie you tell yourself.
Because "just for now" doesn't have an end date. It doesn't come with a reminder. It doesn't tap you on the shoulder and say "hey, remember that thing you were going to get back to?"
It just becomes your life. Quietly. One day at a time.
And then one day you look up and realize "just for now" was 10 years ago. Or 20.
Amy didn't decide to stop being a writer. She just decided to pause. And the pause became permanent.
You're doing the same thing.
The job you took "just until you figure out what you really want."
The place you moved "just for a few years."
The dream you put on hold "just while things settle down."
How long ago was "just for now"?
And what has it cost you to keep living it?
Today's Shift
The Compromise Audit:
Step 1: Name Your "Just For Now"
What did you put on hold that was supposed to be temporary?
The job. The place. The dream. The relationship. The version of yourself.
Write it down. Be specific.
Then write down when you made that compromise. How long ago was "just for now"?
Step 2: Calculate the Cost
What has that compromise cost you?
Not just time. Who did you stop being? What did you stop doing? What version of yourself got buried under "just for now"?
Amy lost 20 years. But more than that, she lost Amy.
What have you lost?
Step 3: Set the End Date
"Just for now" doesn't end on its own. You have to end it.
Pick a date. Not "someday." Not "when things settle down." An actual date.
Write it down: "On [DATE], I stop living the compromise and start living the choice."
Amy's kids are grown. Her "just for now" is over.
But she still has to choose to be Amy again.
What's Next
Tomorrow: The Line in the Sand - You've admitted what you want. You've faced what waiting costs. You've named why wanting feels dangerous. You've seen how "just for now" becomes forever. Tomorrow, we draw the line. Go all in or stay comfortable. You can't do both.
Bottom Line
Amy's sitting at her kitchen table with 20-year-old notebooks.
The kids are grown. The compromise is over.
She doesn't recognize the person who wrote those stories anymore.
That's what "just for now" costs.
Twenty years. And the version of yourself you'll never get back.
— Damien
