She wasn’t addicted to a single thing. She was addicted to more —more input, more noise, more tiny dopamine hits.
The first time she walked in silence, she noticed a bird with a broken tail feather hopping sideways. She almost cried. Not because the bird was sad, but because she realized she hadn’t noticed anything in years. stimaddict
And that was okay. Because she’d learned that sitting with that discomfort, even for five minutes, was like watering a dried-up plant inside her. The quiet wasn’t empty. It was where the real growing happened. She wasn’t addicted to a single thing