Running The Yellow Light

Okay, I need to say this very loudly. Are you listening? Are you there, or just staring into the same void I am? Is this thing on, or am I talking to myself again like a person who’s one step away from narrating her own life in third person? Do you do that too? I can’t tell if it’s a personal quirk or if we’ve all quietly started watching ourselves instead of being ourselves.

I’m tired…

Not the cute, “I need a nap” tired. I mean the kind where the days blur together and suddenly keeping a basil plant alive feels like a long-term commitment I’ve already failed twice. It’s brown. It’s crunchy. I’m pretty sure it’s judging me. I mean the kind of exhaustion where your own personality starts to feel like something you misplaced—like keys, or dignity, or that one version of yourself that used to wake up and have opinions before noon.

A lot has happened these past few years. Enough that I could unpack it, label it, maybe even turn it into something inspiring with a clean narrative arc and a soft piano soundtrack—but I don’t have it in me right now. If you know, you know. If you don’t, you’re going to have to wait until my brain stops buffering like bad WiFi in a basement.

I’m not sleeping. Or I am, but it’s the kind of sleep that feels like a side hustle I didn’t agree to. Bad dreams, weird timelines, people from 2007 showing up for no reason, waking up more tired than when I started. My thoughts feel like they’re moving through sand—but not beach sand, nothing romantic. More like dirt. Dry, gritty, the kind kids eat when no one’s paying attention. That’s what this feels like. Like my brain is full of something it shouldn’t be, and I’m just… letting it happen.

And here’s the part that doesn’t make any sense:

Funny Fact.

I’m actually happy.

Which feels illegal to say out loud. Like someone’s going to knock on my door and say, “Hi, yes, we’re here to confiscate that. You’ve clearly overclaimed.”

I didn’t think happiness would feel like this. I thought it would be obvious. Loud. Like one day I’d wake up and everything would sparkle and I’d be… aggressively joyful. Aggressive and joyful in the same sentence—that’s what I expected. Like rainbows would start shooting out of my ass in a way that would concern medical professionals. Or my mouth—mouth feels more brand-safe. Saliva as the delivery system. Rainbows need water. Very scientific. Peer-reviewed, even.

But no. Contentment is quieter than that. Heavier, even. Like holding something fragile and realizing no one tells you how long you get to keep it. There’s no receipt. No returns once you’ve gotten attached.

Happiness, it turns out, is work. It’s maintenance. It’s waking up and choosing to stay soft when it would be easier—more efficient, even—to harden.

We’re all just colors, aren’t we? Different shades trying to convince the world we belong on the same canvas, even when the canvas keeps getting stretched, torn, redrawn by people who don’t even like color that much.

I’ve decided I’m turquoise.

Not because I naturally am, but because I don’t trust who I am without something to aim at. Turquoise feels like a direction. Like a version of me that drinks water, answers emails on time, and doesn’t spiral in the produce aisle over whether she deserves organic bananas.

I reach for it. I wear it like I’m trying to become it. Makeup, jewelry, clothes, little flashes like breadcrumbs leading me back to a person I almost recognize. Even my car is turquoise. Does that sound ridiculous? Probably. But there are worse things to aspire to than a color that refuses to be ignored.

And still, somehow, we’ve managed to turn skin color into conflict. Into hierarchy. Into history none of us fully knows how to carry or undo without breaking something else in the process. It’s strange, what we do with something that should have just been beautiful.

This is me, unscripted. No outline, no resolution waiting patiently at the end. Just a running monologue with questionable structure and occasional moments of clarity. Stream of consciousness, if we’re being generous. A cry for help with punctuation, if we’re not.

Let’s talk about dating.

Actually—no, let’s absolutely not. Just know it’s a nightmare. The kind where all the warning signs are flashing and I still go, “hmm… let’s see how this plays out.” There are men out there who are not just wrong for me, they are wrong for the world. Ethically misplaced. Who made them? Who approved this batch? And why are they all finding me like I’m on some kind of government list?

I keep asking for a good human. Not a “man’s man,” not some inflated, chest-thumping version of masculinity—just someone decent, self-aware, kind without needing applause, and, dare I say, a little brilliant.

Apparently, that’s a tall order. Apparently, I’ve requested something from the top shelf of humanity and no one stocked it. Maybe it’s time to join the revolution and get an AI boyfriend. I hear they remember your favorite color.

Which, fine. Maybe the problem is me. Or maybe I’ve seen what good looks like, felt what real presence feels like, and now everything else registers as background noise my brain refuses to romanticize.

Joe Schmoe never stood a chance. Not because he’s terrible—he’s probably fine—but “fine” feels like a slow death when you know what alive feels like…

Lately, I feel like I’m constantly running a yellow light.

And honestly—what even is yellow?

It’s this in-between color. Not red, not green. A warning, but not a command. Proceed with caution, but also… go? No wonder nobody respects it. It’s indecisive.

Is yellow even a real color, or just a slight deviation from white? Like it’s barely there, just enough to make you second-guess yourself.

I remember learning somewhere that a Black man invented the traffic light—don’t quote me, my brain is barely operational—but that feels important. Like even the systems meant to guide us came from someone trying to bring order to chaos, and we still don’t listen.

And then there’s the whole question of whether we’re even seeing the same thing. How do I know your yellow is my yellow? You can only describe color in terms of itself. The sun is “yellow,” but what if it’s red to you? What if we’ve all just agreed to call something by the same name and hoped no one notices the difference?

Anyway.

So back to me, running that yellow light.

Hands tight on the wheel. That split-second decision where you commit before you fully process it. You see it turning, you know you should probably stop, but you don’t. And then it’s too late—you’re already in the intersection, pretending this was always the plan, checking the rearview mirror like consequences are about to materialize with flashing lights and a lecture.

And the worst part? You’re not even thinking about the real danger—crashing into another car. Not the impact. Just the aftermath. The “what if I get caught” of it all.

That’s what 2026 feels like right now. Not catastrophe. Not disaster. Just hovering in that in-between space where everything could be fine, or not, and you won’t know until it’s already happened.

Everyone’s talking about the end of the world, and I’m over here worried about losing my health insurance. T

hat’s the scale of my panic. Not apocalypse—personal collapse. Which, unfortunately, is my actual life. And I have a feeling a lot of us aren’t afraid of the end of the world—we’re afraid of our own lives quietly falling apart inside it.

I know I’m lucky. I have people who would catch me if I fell. But for once, I don’t want to fall. I don’t want to be caught. I want to stand there on my own, steady, like I had something to do with it. Like it counts more if no one had to save me.

And speaking of health—mine.

I’m starting the weight loss injections. Which feels like both a practical decision and a small existential crisis wrapped in a tiny needle. Like, am I optimizing my life, or quietly admitting defeat? Unclear. We’ll circle back.

So if you pray, or manifest, or whisper things into the universe like it’s listening—

maybe put in a good word for me.

Or don’t.

I’ll probably still be here either way.

Still tired. Still happy. Still somewhere between red and green.

And I can’t tell if that’s a temporary place to pause—or where I’ve been living all along.

nina

A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/  or wherever you get your podcasts.

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