That "oh well," it wasn't that you've become cold, but a sign that "breathing room" has returned to your heart.

That "oh well," it wasn't that you've become cold, but a sign that "breathing room" has returned to your heart.

"Wait, am I... letting this go now?"

For a little while now, such moments have started to visit me unexpectedly.

In the past, I definitely would have been dwelling on a minor piece of criticism. Yet, for some reason, I find myself able to brush it off with an "oh well."

——I should be happy about it.

But to be honest, I also felt just a little bit scared.

I wondered if being able to "let things go" meant that I had become a cold-hearted person.

The trigger was a silly mistake of my own.

It happened just the other day.

I was corrected by someone from another department. I had asked a question that was like stepping on a landmine because I hadn't properly understood the shared materials, and they spoke to me quite sternly.

The old me would have been finished. I would have been replaying their expression and voice in my mind for days, thinking, "I messed up" and "They must be disappointed in me."

But this time, for some reason,

I was able to let it go smoothly, thinking, "Well, these things happen."

The old me always had a mind full of how others saw me. I didn't want to be disliked; I wanted to be seen as a proper person. That was my sole focus, which is why a single piece of criticism felt many times heavier than it was.

But this time, that weight felt suddenly light. That is exactly why I was confused myself.

Being able to "let go" wasn't because I had become cold.

However, after a while, I realized something.

This is probably the opposite.

Being able to let things go isn't because my heart has turned cold. Rather, it's because a little bit of "breathing room" has returned to my heart.

When you don't have any breathing room, just one comment can fill your heart until it overflows. But if you have even a little bit of space, you can set things aside for a moment, thinking, "Well, that's just how it is."

Honestly, that white space is still far from full. There are still days when I waver.

Even so, that one moment of pause. Just having that makes the way I see the world change quite a bit.

That white space was given to me by "talking to myself" and a "notebook."

So, how did that white space return?

I've only done two things.

One is talking to myself. At night, while walking alone, I try saying all the fog in my head out loud.

The other is a notebook. I try writing down the words that came out of my mouth just as they are.

Just this. But as I kept doing it, I gradually became able to choose things based on "whether I can be satisfied with it" rather than "how I am seen by others."

Little by little, it feels like my own outline has returned.

So, the "letting things go" I do now isn't coldness—I think it probably just means that it's become a little easier to breathe.

Lastly, just one thing.

Have you had a moment recently where you were able to suddenly relax and say, "oh well"?

Was that because you've become indifferent? Or was it because, just a little bit, some white space has returned?

——If you'd like, please let me know in the comments.

I've compiled the habits of "talking to myself" and using a "notebook" that I touched on here into a book in more detail. It's a book titled "When I Decided to Stop Meeting Expectations, It Became Easier to Breathe."

All you need is a notebook, a pen, and maybe some time at night when you can talk to yourself. And then, just a small permission to say, "It's okay to take care of myself."

By the time you finish reading, for example—the answer to "Why am I so tired?" might fall into place. You might be able to turn down invitations you don't want to accept without feeling guilty. You might stop taking on someone else's bad mood as your own fault.

If I could gently bring you closer to such days. If you're interested, please take a look.