The Space Between

It’s strange, standing between versions of yourself.

You’re not who you were, but not quite who you’re becoming.

It’s like living in a hallway between two doors.
The one behind you closing, the one ahead not open yet.

And for a while, that in between feels endless.

You scroll through old photos and don’t recognize that version of you anymore.

The clothes, the people, the places, they all feel close, but not yours anymore.

It’s a weird kind of grief.

Not for someone else, but for yourself.

For the person you had to let go of to get here.

Most people don’t talk about that part of growing up.

The silence between chapters of your life.

The part where nothing feels certain, but you know you can’t go back.

Some days you miss the simplicity.

Other days you’re proud of how far you’ve come.

But mostly, you just feel in between.
Like holding your breath, waiting for something to change.

I’ve learned that’s okay.

You don’t have to have the next version figured out yet.

You just have to keep moving through it.

Because one day you’ll look back at this exact season and realize
this was the part that changed you the most.

The space between isn’t empty.

It’s where you become someone new.

See you next Sunday.

— Lawson

What stayed with me:

The space between who you were and who you’re becoming is where you grow.

Live it this week:

Don’t rush the in between.
This might be the season that changes you the most.

We Didn’t Know It Was Goodbye

You never know it’s the last time until it already is.

No one ever tells you when it’s the last time.

The last late night drive.

The last time everyone’s in the same room.

The last laugh before life scatters you all in different directions.

It always feels like there’ll be one more.

Another night. Another summer. Another chance to say, let’s do this again.

But then one day you realize you already did,
and you didn’t know it was the final one.

There’s no big announcement.

Just silence, and maybe a photo on your camera roll you didn’t know would mean everything later.

Years pass.

You see that photo again, blurry, off center, but somehow perfect,
and suddenly you can feel it all.

The air. The laughter. The comfort of knowing everyone was still there.

It’s strange how ordinary those nights felt while they were happening.

How quickly they became special.

You think you’ll remember every detail,
but time blurs it until it feels like a dream you can almost reach,
but not quite.

And that’s the quiet ache of growing up.

You never know which moments are about to become memories.

So take the photo.

Stay a little longer.

Say what you mean.

Because one day, you’ll look back and realize that night, that drive, that moment,
was the last time it all felt the way it was.

See you next Sunday.

— Lawson

What stayed with me:

You never know it’s the last time until it already is.

Live it this week:

Next time everything feels right, don’t rush it.
You might be living a memory you’ll miss someday.

If Only I Knew Then

We all have that one moment we’d take back.

A sentence that came out wrong.
A door we should’ve opened.
A silence that turned into a goodbye.

For a long time, I told myself that if I knew then what I know now, I’d have done it differently.

I’d have been softer. Or braver. Or said what I actually meant instead of what sounded safe.

But the truth is — I probably wouldn’t have.
Because I wasn’t that person yet.

Back then I thought I understood love. Or timing. Or loss.
But I was mostly just reacting, trying to protect my ego and call it self respect.
Trying to look okay so no one could see I was terrified of not being enough.

That’s what nobody tells you:
Most of the mistakes you regret weren’t made out of anger.
They were made out of fear.

Fear of being seen.
Fear of saying too much.
Fear that the person you wanted would want someone better.

So yeah, if I knew then what I know now, I’d still screw it up.
Just maybe a little faster.

Because knowing doesn’t change you. Living does.
And that part hurts.

It hurts to outgrow your own bullshit.
It hurts to look back and see how many people you pushed away while trying to protect yourself.
It hurts to realize you can’t explain to someone who left that you finally get it.

There’s no redo button. No “send again.” No time machine for unsaid things.
You just carry it, and hope you do better next time.

But lately I’ve stopped hating that younger version of me.
He didn’t know better, but he was trying.
And honestly? Trying counts.

You can’t become who you’re supposed to be without breaking the old version open first.
That’s the deal.

The people you lost, the things that fell apart — that’s the price to pay.
That’s what growing costs.

So yeah, if I knew then… maybe I’d have been kinder. Maybe I’d have listened more.
Maybe I’d have let someone love me without trying to control how it looked.
But maybe I had to lose it all to understand what staying really means.

That wasn’t luck. That was grace.

Grace doesn’t erase what happened.
It just lets you look at it without flinching.

You can’t rewrite the story. But you can decide how you carry it.
And that’s the part nobody can take from you.

— Lawson

What stayed with me:

Forgive the version of you that didn’t know yet. They got you here.

Live it this week:

Do one thing your old self would’ve been scared to do. Don’t wait for perfect timing. Just start.

The Moment It Got Quiet

“When you work, work. When you play, play. Don’t mix the two.” — Jim Rohn

I didn’t really understand that quote until this year.

Back then, I was deep in my old business. Stuck inside a screen, working nonstop, thinking if I just went harder, it would finally make sense.

Even when I was with friends, my mind was somewhere else.

I’d be nodding along to conversations,
but really I was thinking about numbers, growth, plans.

I called it ambition.

But really, it was anxiety.

Then on a road trip, the one that eventually became Bound By Memories, something changed.

We’d been driving for hours.
Music on.
Windows down.
The kind of air that feels like freedom.

And for the first time in a long time, my brain went quiet.

That’s when that Jim Rohn quote finally made sense.

“When you work, work. When you play, play.”

I realized I’d been mixing the two.
Chasing success so hard that I forgot what it felt like to actually live.

Since then, I’ve tried to keep that line in the back of my head.

When I’m creating, I give it everything.
But when it’s time to live, I try to actually live.

It’s not about balance like people talk about online.
It’s about being present.
Trusting that what’s meant for you doesn’t need you to burn yourself out to earn it.

I don’t always get it right.
But I’m trying.
And honestly, that’s enough.

— Lawson

What stayed with me:

What’s meant for you won’t need you to lose yourself to find it.

Live it this week:

Whatever you’re doing: work, rest, or something in between,
do it all the way.