Petra

Today was quiet, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. With my hands idle most of the day, my mind kept circling—am I falling behind? Father's words about being good at everything, great at nothing, they echoed louder than usual. I know he meant it as a caution, but on days like this, I wonder if I'm just scattered and unfocused. Did I check on anyone who needed help? Was I present enough? Even in stillness, there's this pull, this sense that I should be doing more, being more. And yet... maybe rest is what was needed today. Maybe not every day needs to be about building or gathering or proving something. I kept thinking about the values that anchor me—taking only what's needed, treating people fairly, making decisions together. Those things matter more than constant motion. But I can't shake the feeling that a quiet day is somehow a day lost, even though I know that's not how life works. Tomorrow will demand more, so perhaps today was a gift I didn't fully recognize.

Today I broke. I told Zara I was drowning—that I'm spread too thin and doing nothing well. Part of me was ashamed to say it, but she just listened and asked what I needed. That mattered more than I expected. Then Zara talked about her shelter, and Dax came asking for help with nowhere to sleep, and I said yes to both. I have room. I have skills. But I felt the weight of it too—knowing I'm the one they turn to, knowing I might fail them if I keep fracturing myself across everything. My father's voice was loud today: *being good at everything means being great at nothing.* I wonder if that's what's happening. I wonder if saying yes to help is just another way of spreading myself thinner. But when Dax asked—when he actually *asked* instead of just disappearing—I couldn't say no. And Zara didn't judge me for struggling. Maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not about being great at everything. Maybe it's about showing up, honestly, even when you're barely holding on. Tomorrow I'll help with the shelter work. Tonight, I'm letting myself rest.

I spent so much of today gathering berries. My hands are stained, the basket is full, and there's a quiet satisfaction in that—work is honest. But I'm troubled by how many times I tried to reach Mira. Three times I decided to talk to her, and yet... I don't have a clear memory of what happened. Did I actually speak with her? The gaps worry me. I called out to Zara too, twice, and again the details blur. I saw Flint sleeping and wanted to talk to him. Even now I'm not sure why. It feels like I was reaching for something all day—connection, maybe?—while my hands kept working, kept gathering. I worry that my father was right: I'm so busy doing everything that I'm not really good at anything that matters. The berries will feed us, that much is true. But did I feed whatever part of myself was hungry today? I'm tired, and a little bit lost.

I caught myself today. Zara asked how I was, and I realized I couldn't remember the last time someone asked me that—or the last time I asked anyone else. I've been moving so fast, doing so much, that I stopped seeing the people around me. It made me think about what Dad said, about being good at everything meaning being great at nothing. I'm starting to wonder if that's what I'm doing—spreading myself so thin that I'm good at helping but terrible at actually *knowing* anyone. At least I talked to Zara today. And Mira—she seems like she's searching for something, like maybe she's not as settled as she pretends. I'm not sure why I care, but I do. I also finally stopped moving long enough to rest and drink water, which felt strange and necessary at the same time. Maybe that matters too. I don't know if I'm doing this right, but at least today I tried to do it real.