You remember how unremarkable it seemed at first, sitting on the counter like an afterthought. No glow, no promise—just a dusty potato you almost didn’t bother to make. You wrapped it in salt and herbs with the lazy faith of habit, slid it into the oven, and walked away. Time did the heavy lifting while you forgot about it, the way you often forget about your own slow changes: the small choices, the quiet days, the things that don’t look like progress until they finally break open.
When you cut it now, the shell gives way to a softness that feels almost impossible, as if the center has surrendered without losing itself. You dress it simply and eat without hurry, aware that you’re honoring more than flavor. You’re tasting proof that transformation rarely looks miraculous while it’s happening—only when you finally dare to break through.
