The Tranquil Vintessa

Life… It’s the thing that happens while you’re waiting for it to begin.

Most of my life—if not all—I’ve been waiting for that moment when everything aligns. When all the pieces fall into place and I’m finally “ready” to start. It was always coming soon. I was always ready to embrace it.

But as I spoke to my sister about her upcoming birthday, I couldn’t help thinking about my own passage of time. What was happening in my life? What had I really done?

I waited. I worked. I got by. But I never did.

Sometimes I didn’t even know what I wanted to do. I never had a true dream—too busy living in survival mode to imagine one—and when I did dream, it was always of freedom. I pictured days spent with herbs and words, my hands in the earth and my mind in a story.

And yet, with ten years of writing under my belt, there isn’t much to show. I think of all the great writers and artisans, and how rarely their lives were about “making it.” They simply created. Still, I’ve scaled down my dream over and over, never sure of it.

So I had to ask myself: What if it never comes?

What will my life have been—a waiting game?

When these thoughts creep in, I bury myself in work. Work will save me, I tell myself. It has to. But age has a way of whispering wisdom, and lately I’ve remembered something small but vital:

I started writing because I wanted my life to be a story. One full of love, passion, and adventure. I wanted to live and tell people about it. I wanted a life dotted with lovers and kindred spirits, a tapestry of connection and wild nights. My life was not supposed to be ordinary.

Somewhere along the way, in the noise and mess of surviving, I forgot to live it.

Instead of nights spent dancing, learning, and wandering, I’ve spent most evenings indoors with my pup. I am grateful for those nights—the quiet, the companionship—but I lost sight of the passion that makes me feel alive. I thought my life would finally be “enough” if I could just reach that next goal.

I didn’t see that life isn’t about checked boxes. It’s meant to be tasted, touched, and felt.

The real question is simple: Did you enjoy your time here? Did you experience the beauty of living? If yes—then you’ve already won.

So I’ve given up the idea of living perfectly. I am simply living, letting life arrive as it chooses.

I take the long way home just to catch the sunset. I say yes to last-minute invitations. I drink coffee slowly, read poems out loud to my dog, and watch the steam curl into the morning light. I sleep in my sexy pajamas, even when no one’s watching, because beauty doesn’t need an audience. I stop saving the good wine for some “special” day and open it now, because now is special enough.

Life has become quieter, softer—peaceful in a way that feels earned. Even the words I send out into the world, in my newsletter, feel like little love letters to whoever needs them most. It’s not the grand, sweeping drama I once thought I needed—but it’s deeply, achingly alive.

And honestly… that in itself is romantic as hell.