Spent the morning rereading things I wrote three years ago. The strange part isn't that they're bad, most of them are fine, it's that I can't remember being the person who thought them worth writing down. Somewhere between then and now the thing I was anxious about quietly stopped mattering, and nothing arrived to replace it. I think that's what progress actually feels like from the inside: not arrival, just the slow disappearance of an old worry.