Your nervous system has been running hustle mode so long it forgot there’s another gear, and now it’s 3am and you’re lying in bed calculating your net worth while your jaw clenches like it’s personally responsible for holding capitalism together. You’ve been white-knuckling abundance like it’s a feral cat you’re trying to shove into a carrier. You’ve manifested. You’ve affirmed. You’ve vision-boarded so hard your Pinterest has a restraining order against you. And somewhere around age seven you learned that rest was laziness and worthiness was a performance review that never fucking ended.
There is a timeline where pleasure leads and results follow. Where your blood already knows the door is open before your mind finishes arguing with the lock. Where ease moves through your cells like a lover who finally has time, and money stops being a fight you keep losing.
Plot twist: you don’t GET to this timeline. You drop INTO it. Your pelvis already has the coordinates. Your prefrontal cortex is …
