Balloons de Feline | Fiction, Music, Chaos & Catharsis

There’s a version of passion we like to romanticize.

The kind that’s loud.

The kind that looks good on social media.

The kind that says “If you love it enough, it won’t hurt.”

That’s a lie.

Some of the things we love the most will absolutely break us open at some point. Not because we’re weak. Not because we chose wrong. But because intensity—real intensity—comes with a cost.

Creative work does this. Touring does this. Building something from nothing does this.

You pour yourself into it because you care. You stay longer than you should because it matters. You push through exhaustion because the work feels bigger than you are. And somewhere along the way, the line between devotion and depletion gets blurry.

Nobody tells you that loving the work doesn’t always feel good.

Sometimes it feels like grief.

Sometimes it feels like resentment you don’t want to admit.

Sometimes it feels like standing still while the world keeps demanding more from you.

And yet—you don’t quit.

Not because you’re trapped.

But because some callings don’t release you cleanly.

There’s strength in staying.

There’s also strength in pausing.

And there’s a very quiet kind of bravery in admitting when the thing you love needs to be held differently than before.

Growth isn’t always about doing more.

Sometimes it’s about doing the same work with better boundaries.

Or stepping back long enough to remember why you started in the first place.

You’re allowed to love the work and protect yourself.

You’re allowed to honor the craft without sacrificing your well-being.

You’re allowed to evolve—even if it makes people uncomfortable.

The work will still be there.

The question is whether you’ll still recognize yourself when you meet it again.