Metronome

I’ve been thinking about repetition lately — what it feels like to build pressure without knowing where it’s going to land.

I sent out my twentieth submission this week.

Another rejection came back. Polite. Brief. Efficient.

At the same time, a new business I launched — something playful, something that felt like me — is still quiet. No orders yet. No proof of traction. Just the hum of effort waiting for response.

This is the part no one romanticizes.

The stretch where you keep showing up without evidence that it’s working.

In Metronome, there’s a moment where the body starts responding before anything actually happens. The signal is there — a low hum beneath the skin — but the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

A clue? A reckoning? A switch?

The chords are still

stacked in the dark.

That’s exactly how this season feels.

Momentum without release.

Desire without confirmation.

The metronome ticking even when no one’s counting the beat.

What makes this hard isn’t rejection itself. It’s the way silence stacks up and starts whispering conclusions: that I’m not built for this, not talented enough, not sharp enough to succeed at the things I care about most. That wanting something this badly is evidence of foolishness, not commitment.

I recognize that voice.

It’s persuasive.

It’s wrong.

Because underneath it all, the hum is still there.

Not excitement — something steadier.

A charge that doesn’t disappear just because the room stays quiet.

The kind that keeps moving through the body whether it’s witnessed or not.

This is what practice looks like when there’s no applause.

When the effort doesn’t resolve.

When you keep time anyway.

I don’t know where this lands yet.

I only know that stopping mid-beat would be the real failure.

So I keep going.

Reading. Learning. Writing. Submitting. Building.

Letting the pressure exist without demanding it prove itself.

The metronome keeps ticking.