It slipped out before I could catch it—quick, sharp, and dressed like a joke. The moment it left my mouth, something in me recoiled. Some things don’t echo out loud, but they reverberate inside you for hours. It was one of those comments people typically forget after a little bit of time—
except I couldn’t.
I hated that it still lived in me. I hated how fast it came out. I hated that it felt so… familiar.
There was a part of me that wanted to run from it. To bury it. To pretend it didn’t matter.
I started rationalizing—telling myself it wasn’t that big of a deal, that people say worse things, that I didn’t mean it.
But I couldn’t make it disappear. Not anymore.
Because now? I’ve done too much work to not feel it.
The guilt stayed. Quiet. Steady. A hand on my shoulder. A voice in the back of my head whispering,
This isn’t who you want to be.
So I didn’t bury it.
I didn’t laugh louder or change the subject or move on and hope no one noticed.
I sat in it.
And I did something I wouldn’t have done years ago:
I owned it. I admitted it. I apologized. I felt the shame and let it teach me something, instead of trying to silence it.
That’s what growth looks like now.
Not perfection. Not pride. Just presence.
And self-awareness—the kind that burns a little, but keeps you facing forward.
During my MSM program, I had to complete a year-long capstone project—an intensive study that was supposed to reflect not only what I’d learned, but how I thought.
I started with a topic I didn’t care about.
I don’t even remember what it was now. That’s how unaligned it was.
But a few weeks in, I realized I couldn’t go a full year studying something I wasn’t passionate about.
I had a choice to make.
Even though I had already invested time and effort into the first topic, I knew it wasn’t the right fit.
And that’s where the sunk cost came in—a familiar concept in finance:
You’ve already spent something that can’t be recovered, so you either keep throwing energy into a bad investment…
or you cut your losses and pivot.
I chose to pivot.
I still remember walking into her office.
My professor had an open-door policy, but everyone knew she didn’t like being interrupted.
So even as I stepped in, I was bracing for the tension.
I had my pitch ready. I wanted to change my topic to something I felt—the correlation between mindset and success.
But before I could even begin, I blurted out an apology. I told her I was sorry for bothering her. That I almost didn’t come in at all because I didn’t want to take up space she didn’t want me in.
And what she said next?
It rewired something in me.
“What? I love talking to you. I love hearing what you have to say.”
That moment cracked something open.
The project became more than a study.
It became my life. I didn’t just research mindset—I tested it on myself.
I made myself the subject.
Every time something didn’t go the way I wanted, I practiced reframing it.
I watched how my thoughts shifted my outcomes. I studied my reactions.
I tracked my growth.
Not from the outside, but from inside the storm.
When I gave my final presentation, I didn’t just present ideas.
I presented lived experience.
The first version had been scattered, uncertain, rushed.
This time? I spoke with rhythm, clarity, stories.
I didn’t need a script.
I had evidence.
My own mind had been the proving ground.
So when I make a joke that doesn’t align with who I am—
when I feel the twist in my gut—
when I want to run but don’t—
it’s not a failure.
It’s feedback.
And recently, it happened again.
Not in the same way—but in that same twisting gut kind of way.
I crossed a small boundary. One that, years ago, I wouldn’t have even noticed.
But now? I noticed right away.
And I immediately went into “fix-it” mode.
I wanted to smooth it over, make it disappear, erase it.
Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared so much that the discomfort overwhelmed me.
But that’s what I’m learning, too:
Sometimes discomfort is not an alarm.
It’s a lesson.
A quiet recalibration that says,
Stay here. Don’t run. This is where the change begins.
Years ago, I didn’t know how to set boundaries.
Now I know how to break them, recognize it, own it, and recalibrate.
That’s not regression.
That’s refinement.
Growth doesn’t always feel good.
Sometimes it feels like guilt that won’t go away until you face it.
Sometimes it feels like an old habit slipping out of your mouth before your new self catches up.
Sometimes it feels like walking into someone’s office, apologizing for being a burden—
only to find out you never were.
So if you’ve ever felt the shame of slipping…
if you’ve ever felt the sting of a moment that didn’t align with your values…
if you’ve ever wrestled with the gap between who you were and who you want to be—
You’re not broken.
You’re just changing.
And the discomfort?
That means it’s working.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
What about you?
Have you ever caught yourself mid-pattern—said something, done something—that didn’t sit right with who you’re becoming? What did you do next? How did it shape you? I’d love to hear your thoughts, your stories, your growth. Drop them in the comments or message me privately. You never know who might feel less alone because you shared.