Life Gets On You

A poet on TikTok that I’ve really come to enjoy shared a “day in the life” video, and it stopped my doom scrolling to reflect on it… not because it was profound in the way viral things usually are, but because it was honest in that quiet, accidental way that sneaks under your skin. He said, “I’m wearing my favorite shirt today. I never put it on, I realized. I’m always afraid I’m going to spill something on it. Life gets on you. So, I mostly just sit in it. Real still”. It was the way he said life gets on you… Like living is something messy you have to brace yourself for, something you might not come out of unstained. He talked about putting a sticker on a cup, one he’d been saving for years because he didn’t want to ruin it. Something about that image wrecked me a little. The sticker, waiting for a perfect something that never came. The shirt, folded neatly in the drawer, untouched. All these tiny, sacred things we keep trying to preserve, like they’re too fragile for living. He said there’s probably a metaphor there, and he didn’t feel like wringing it out, but I couldn’t help it. Because isn’t that what we all do? Sit real still, trying not to let life get on us, pretending that waiting is a form of care when really, it’s fear dressed as tenderness.

I get it… the favorite shirt thing. I have one, too. It’s soft in that lived-in way that only time can make it, the cotton worn thin at the edges, holding the faint scent of old detergent and memory. Every time I touch it, it feels like nostalgia disguised as fabric… familiar, forgiving, safe. When I wear it, I feel like I’m returning to some truer version of myself, one that isn’t trying so hard to hold everything together. But most of the time, it just stays there, hanging delicately in the back of my closet like a secret I’m too afraid to tell anyone because they might not understand. I glance at it sometimes, promise myself I’ll wear it soon, and then close the closet before I can change my mind. Because the moment I think about slipping it on, that voice starts whispering again… the one that sounds like every version of me that’s ever been afraid to mess things up. What if you spill something? What if you ruin it? What if you don’t deserve to wear the things that make you feel good? And so, the shirt stays safe, untouched, while I stay cautious, pretending that protection and preservation are the same thing.

I’ve spent years doing that with my life, too. With love. With words. With joy. Always waiting for the right moment, the safe one… the one that promises I won’t screw it up. I wait until the timing feels divine, until the stars align, until I’ve earned it somehow. But the truth is, I’ve built a life around waiting. I’ve told myself I’m just being cautious, responsible, intentional… when really, I’m just scared. Scared to spill on the good parts. Scared to use up what feels sacred. I’ve whispered excuses like prayers: I’ll wear the shirt when I lose the weight. I’ll take the trip when things calm down. I’ll share the poem when it’s perfect. But “careful” has become my disguise, my armor, my quiet form of self-sabotage. Because perfection isn’t safety…  it’s a cage dressed up as control. It’s the illusion that if I just hold still long enough, life won’t stain me. But it does. It always does. And somewhere along the way, I forgot that stains mean you actually lived.

Sometimes I wonder how much I’ve missed by trying not to mess things up… how many sunsets I’ve watched from behind the safety of a window instead of feeling the heat on my face, how many moments I’ve diluted by trying to make them sound prettier than they were. I’ve postponed joy like it’s a luxury I have to earn, promising myself I’ll live fully once I have it all “figured out.” But life doesn’t wait for your readiness; it moves, relentless and unbothered, while you’re still standing there, clutching your good shirt and your good intentions. It’s this quiet kind of self-sabotage… not the explosive kind that burns everything down, but the slow erosion that happens when you keep holding your breath, waiting for the perfect inhale. It doesn’t destroy you all at once, it just delays your becoming. You convince yourself you’re protecting your peace, when really, you’re protecting your fear. And before you know it, you’ve sat in your own stillness so long, it’s started to feel like safety…  when really, it’s just stagnation dressed up as control.

And yet, there’s something about that video… about the shirt, the sticker, the cup… that feels like being seen in a way that’s almost uncomfortable. Like someone cracked open my chest and found all the small, quiet ways I hold myself back. There’s this strange relief in knowing someone else understands what it means to move through life half-in, to hover on the edges of your own existence, waiting for permission that never actually comes. Because maybe it’s not really about shirts or stickers, maybe it’s about the ache of wanting to preserve the beautiful things, afraid that using them means losing them. It’s about the hand that hesitates before lighting the good candle that’s the perfect balance of lavender and vanilla, or writing in the pretty leather bound journal, or using that perfectly crafted Cherrico Pottery cosmic mug, or opening the bottle of wine you swore you were saving for “a special occasion,” as if the ordinary day you survived wasn’t special enough. Maybe it’s about how terrifying it is to use up what we love… the clothes, the words, the years… when there’s no guarantee there will be more. There’s something heartbreakingly human about that fear, about the way we ration joy like it might run out, when really, it’s the hoarding of it that empties us.

But I’m starting to think that’s the point… that life is supposed to get on you, to leave its fingerprints and coffee rings and smudges of color you can’t quite scrub out. Maybe that’s how it marks you as someone who’s been here. It’s supposed to spill and stain and unravel a little at the seams, because that’s what living does… it breaks the surface, it leaves evidence. Maybe the shirt gets ruined, but it also gets worn into your story. Maybe the sticker goes on crooked, but every time you see it, you remember the day you finally decided to stop waiting. Maybe the house stays half-clean and the dream half-finished, but at least it’s yours… real and breathing and touched by your own imperfect hands. I think about all the times I’ve tried to keep my life pristine, and how sterile it felt. Untouched things don’t carry warmth; they just sit there, collecting dust while the days pass by. Maybe the mess is the miracle… the proof that we dared to show up. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe being in it… knees scraped, heart open, a little stained but still standing… is far better than sitting still, waiting for a perfect that never comes.

So, the metaphor here is about fear of living fully.

The shirt and the sticker are stand-ins for ourselves… for all the things we love, create, or dream about but never quite allow to be used. They symbolize the way we hold our lives at arm’s length, trying to keep everything unspoiled. We convince ourselves that we’re protecting what’s precious… the favorite shirt, the perfect idea, the good love, the soft part of us… but what we’re really doing is protecting our fear of imperfection, of loss, of exposure. The “stain” isn’t the problem; it’s the proof we lived. There’s no denying how paralyzing it feels to know that the moment you wear the shirt or stick the sticker, it can’t be “perfect” anymore. It will be used. It will carry evidence of you. But, life is meant to get on you. You can’t live untouched and still call it living. The stains, the smudges, the crooked stickers… they’re the marks of participation, of choosing to be in it instead of hovering above it. It’s about letting life leave fingerprints on the things you love, and realizing that ‘ruining’ something beautiful is often how you make it real.

So, I think I’ll wear the shirt tomorrow. Not for a special occasion, not because the stars aligned or the timing feels right but because I’m tired of saving my life for later. I’ll pull it over my head and let it cling to my skin, soft and familiar, a quiet rebellion against all the ways I’ve kept myself waiting. Maybe I’ll spill something on it… coffee, wine, maybe even tears. Maybe I’ll do it on purpose, just to prove that ruin isn’t the worst thing that can happen. Maybe the worst thing is never letting anything touch you at all. I want the stain to remind me that I was here… that I lived, that I reached for something, that I didn’t sit on the sidelines of my own story. Because life will always leave its marks, but maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. Maybe the spills and smudges are proof that I finally stopped protecting my joy and started participating in it. And maybe tomorrow, when I catch a glimpse of that little stain, I’ll smile… because it’ll mean I finally wore the damn shirt.

The original poem that sparked this reflection belongs to @trevcimenski on TikTok, whose words reminded me how sacred it is to let life get on you.