There was a time I didn’t notice.
I would just wake up a little off…
or say something that didn’t really sound like me.
Sometimes I would feel like a mother who had lost all softness.
Or a girl who was suddenly very small, looking for someone to guide her.
Or a powerful woman who couldn’t stop working.
Or a version of me that just wanted sex, as if the body was starving.
And I’d think — what’s wrong with me?

But nothing was wrong.
The version behind the wheel was just trying to help.
Trying to protect.
Trying to keep me going.

Now I see it.
And instead of grabbing the wheel back,
I listen.
I feel the grip.
I let her know — I’m here now.
I can drive

Sometimes I don’t know who’s driving.
And I no longer need to know.
Because even when the wheel is taken over —
I’m still here.
I’m still feeling.
I’m still humming.

Maybe that’s the real seat of the conductor:
Not controlling who drives…
But staying inside
Even when I’m not the one in charge.

And the funny thing is —
The moment I stop trying to get the wheel back,
The one who’s been driving all along…
lets go.

She softens.
She exhales.
She dissolves into me.

And then we’re not switching drivers anymore.
We’re becoming one