Burnt Toast and the Art of Coming Back to Yourself

This morning, I burnt the toast.

Not in some catastrophic, fire-alarm kind of way — just enough to make it bitter. Charred edges. Smoke curling up like a warning. That kind of burnt.

I stood there staring at it longer than I care to admit, like maybe if I stared hard enough, it would explain something to me.

Something about why I’ve been so tired lately.

Something about why I feel like I’m always sprinting through my own life to keep up with the person I told the world I am.

You know that feeling?

Like you’ve got this image to maintain — this whole persona wrapped in competence and sparkle — but inside, you’re just trying not to cry in the Trader Joe’s parking lot because you forgot the damn peanut butter.

It’s absurd, really.

All of it.

Because I’m the kind of person who writes about healing. About slowing down. About inner children and cosmic timing and nervous system regulation. And yet, I still manage to forget to breathe when my inbox pings.

So, yeah. I burnt the toast.

And for some reason, it broke me open just a little.

I leaned against the counter, holding that slice like it held the answers, and whispered out loud:

“I miss myself.”

And I didn’t mean the version of me that had her act together. I meant the one who used to watch bees dancing on clover and talk to trees without irony. The one who didn’t measure her worth by how many notifications she cleared. The one who could eat toast slowly, with both feet on the ground.

When did everything become so loud?

When did we all agree that survival mode was a personality trait?

I think a lot about how easy it is to drift away from yourself. Not in some dramatic, cinematic way — but quietly, slowly. Like burnt toast. Like forgetting the words to your favorite song.

And I think about how healing isn’t always about breakthroughs, ayahuasca retreats, or reinventing your entire life on a Tuesday. Sometimes, it’s just about noticing, coming back, and choosing something smaller.

Like taking the time to make a second piece of toast. And eating it without checking your phone.

I don’t have a list of five action steps to fix your soul. But I have this:

You’re allowed to come back to yourself again and again.

You’re allowed to slow down without apologizing.

You’re allowed to want a life that feels alive, not just efficient.

And if you’ve wandered a little too far lately, that’s okay.

You’re not lost.

You’re just remembering.

One breath at a time.

One honest moment at a time.

One non-burnt piece of toast at a time.