**Permission to Be Boring**

9:01 AM—Ethan didn’t even look up when I walked in today. Just slid my coffee across the counter—black, splash of oat milk—before I even spoke. "You’re a creature of habit," he said, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to argue.

Because here’s my radical new thought: Maybe growth isn’t about being interesting. Maybe it’s about being at ease.

My sketchbook’s open to a half-finished design—no dramatic inspiration, no grand reveal. Just a sleeve detail I’ve been tweaking for days. A month ago, I would’ve forced myself to "spice it up" with some wild embellishment. Today? I’m learning to love the mundane mastery of getting the basics right.

Here’s the quiet shift happening:

1. I’m not performing "growth" anymore. Liam asked what I did yesterday, and instead of crafting some aesthetic answer ("Oh, just journaling at this cute new café!"), I shrugged. "Scrolled TikTok in bed, ate cereal for dinner." And it felt freeing. I used to think evolving meant constantly having stories. Now? I’m savoring the unremarkable moments that actually fill me up.

2. My creativity is allowed to be small. That sleeve detail? It’s not groundbreaking. It’s technical. And for once, I’m not mad about it. I used to think my work had to scream "look at me!" Now? I’m obsessed with the whispered precision of craftsmanship—the kind you only notice if you really look.

3. I’m falling in love with routine. October in LA is all about the same golden light, the same breeze, the same Ethan making my same coffee. I used to itch for newness. Now? There’s a safety in the sameness—a rhythm that lets me dig deeper instead of wider.

Ethan just handed someone a latte with three foam hearts. Old me would’ve felt less than with my plain cup. Today? I take a slow sip and smirk.

Some of us don’t bloom with fireworks. Some of us grow like ivy—steady, quiet, clinging to the ordinary until it becomes sacred.

xx Mandy

(P.S. That sleeve? Still unfinished. And for the first time, I don’t feel guilty about it.)