Redefining Consistency: What I’m Learning in a Season of Transition

Consistency has been on my mind for a long time — long before I packed up my life and started this four-month journey. It’s been an almost-daily companion, trailing behind me with a familiar mix of guilt, pressure, and the ever-present feeling that I should be doing more. More journaling. More meditating. More drawing. More posting. More staying connected. More being who people have always known me to be: the reliable one, the dependable one, the person who always shows up.

Except… I haven’t been that person lately. Not in the ways I used to be. And it’s been uncomfortable.

I feel inconsistency in my body like a little knot of guilt — as if falling out of routine means I’m falling short. But what I wish people understood is this: I’m in transition. I’m doing big inner and outer work right now. I hope others can offer me some grace while I’m trying to do the same for myself. I’m unlearning years — decades — of putting others’ needs before my own, and that unlearning is messy.

The Old Definition of Consistency (AKA: How I Learned to Be Useful)

For most of my life, consistency meant one thing: showing up for everyone else. If I said I would do something, I did it. Every time.

I responded to emails immediately. I hit every deadline. I made sure the people around me felt supported, cared for, and never disappointed. I was the reliable friend, the dependable coworker, the person who would go the extra mile without thinking twice.

That version of consistency gave me a sense of value — and if I’m honest, a sense of safety. Being needed was a way to belong. Showing up for others was how I earned approval. Reliability was not just a habit; it was a survival strategy.

And as you might guess, it came at the expense of my own needs. Every. Single. Time.

When I was consistent, people praised me. When I wasn’t, I feared judgment, disappointment, or disconnection. So I kept performing the role, even when it drained me.

When Everything Fell Apart (In a Way That Was Also a Beginning)

Leaving my job dismantled the entire framework that had held my life together. Suddenly, the external structure — the deadlines, expectations, and pressure to deliver — vanished. And without those cues, I had no idea what my own rhythms were. I didn’t know how to rest. I didn’t know how to listen to my body. I didn’t know how to prioritize myself without feeling guilty.

Then came a long stretch of grief, burnout, and transition — all of which unraveled whatever routines I had left. Exhaustion took over. The kind of exhaustion that makes motivation nearly impossible. The kind that makes creativity feel out of reach. The kind that makes you believe you should be “further along” by now, even when your entire inner world is still rearranging itself.

And then I started this slow-travel journey. Which, as you can imagine, doesn’t exactly lend itself to routine.

Constant movement means constantly resetting. New places, new beds, new grocery stores, new languages, new everything. It disrupts the nervous system and the calendar. But it has also given me something invaluable: space. Space to hear myself. Space to notice old patterns. Space to practice choosing myself in small, awkward, imperfect ways.

And honestly? Traveling alone has helped me see my people-pleasing more clearly than ever. Without familiar roles or obligations, without anyone’s expectations to guide me, I’m learning to recognize what I need. Sometimes that looks like taking a slow walk in nature. Sometimes it means not creating anything for days. Sometimes it means choosing rest over productivity.

It’s inconsistent — but maybe inconsistency is exactly what I need right now.

A New Definition: Gentle, Nourishing, Human

Lately I’ve been asking myself: What would consistency look like if it came from honoring myself, not obligating myself?

Right now, it looks like slow walks in sunshine. It looks like listening to my energy instead of forcing routines. It looks like giving myself permission to not feel creative. It looks like believing that small, quiet steps count. It looks like choosing what nourishes me instead of what pleases others.

I want my consistency to feel gentle, intuitive, and supportive — not performative. I want it to align with who I’m becoming, not who I felt I needed to be. Even the tiniest acts — like stepping outside, noticing beauty, or taking care of my basic needs — are their own quiet forms of consistency. They don’t look impressive, but they’re deeply meaningful.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

Creativity, Slow Travel, and Letting the Old Patterns Fall Away

Creativity doesn’t fit neatly inside productivity culture — but I’ve tried to force it to. I’ve carried around the belief that if I’m not producing something, I’m falling behind. That if I sit and draw “just because,” it’s somehow indulgent. That rest is lazy. That being still is wasteful.

But creative cycles are naturally inconsistent. Slow travel is naturally inconsistent. Reinvention is naturally inconsistent.

And the deeper I go into this journey, the more I realize: Consistency was never supposed to look like rigidity. It’s supposed to look like self-trust.

Letting go of old definitions of consistency isn’t making me flaky — it’s making me more authentic. More aligned. More honest. More me.

If You’re Struggling With Consistency Too…

I want you to know this: You’re not behind. You’re not failing. You’re not the problem.

Feeling inconsistent in the middle of transition, healing, burnout, or self-discovery is normal — even if the world around you tries to convince you otherwise.

The system is flawed, not you.

Your worth is not tied to your output.

You’re human — gloriously, beautifully human — and humans are not machines. We’re meant to ebb and flow. To pause. To get it wrong. To try again. To grow in ways that don’t always show on the surface.

Throughout my travels, I’ve met so many people on similar journeys of burnout, reinvention, and redefining themselves. Meeting them has helped me see that I’m not broken — I’m becoming.

And so are you.