Chapter 1: The Art of Arriving

July 2025, Washington, D.C.

The oppressive humidity hung thickly in the air, cloaking Washington D.C. in a familiar midsummer haze. Joelle loosened the collar of her blouse as she leaned back against the balcony railing, her eyes drifting toward the Capitol dome in the distance—an ironic reminder of how close she’d come to the epicenter of power, and yet how distant she felt from herself.

She had it all, at least on paper. She was a senior associate at a prestigious law firm, married to a kind man whose steady nature matched her restless spirit. Their brownstone on a tree-lined street was a testament to carefully executed plans and ambitions meticulously checked off. Yet, standing here in the dusky warmth, something was unmistakably missing.

Joelle let her thoughts wander back to another July evening, fourteen summers ago. It had been cool then, almost chilly, the Irish breeze gently brushing across her face as she wandered aimlessly through Dublin’s winding cobblestone streets. That was before she’d crafted a life around billable hours, polished emails, and boardroom negotiations. Before ambition became her life’s rhythm, before the whispered promise of “only after everything” became her guiding mantra.

Ireland had once represented freedom—a semester abroad at twenty, her first real escape from expectations, both her own and those silently imposed by others. Back then, freedom tasted like late-night tea shared in cozy flats, felt like scribbling dreams in a leather-bound journal, and sounded like her own laughter echoing softly down dimly lit streets. She’d never felt more at home, or more herself.

Tonight, beneath the heavy D.C. sky, the ache of nostalgia caught her off guard. She had achieved everything her younger self had yearned for, but she now realized that chasing success had a quiet cruelty. Each achievement was supposed to bring peace, contentment, or some mythical finality. But peace never came. She’d mistaken ambition for happiness, only to discover she was still reaching, still waiting.

Glancing back into her office, Joelle’s eyes fell on an old green leather notebook, dusty from years of neglect. The familiar curl of its worn edges stirred something within her. She stepped inside, pulled it from the shelf, and gently opened its pages, her breath catching at the sight of her twenty-year-old handwriting, bold and messy with earnest hope:

“Maybe happiness isn’t after everything. Maybe it’s right here, in the messiness of now.”

Her younger self had seen what her older self had forgotten: life wasn’t something to postpone. Peace wasn’t a destination; it was a choice, a presence, something woven quietly into everyday moments—the mundane, overlooked fragments that, when pieced together, made life beautiful.

Joelle sank into her chair, her fingers tracing the ink from her past, feeling strangely comforted. It was time, she knew, to start living not after, but during everything.

She turned to a fresh page, hesitated only briefly, and began to write.