It Was Just a Fork — Until It Wasn't

I swapped one fork for another in my own kitchen and heard a voice in my head say: "There you go again. So high maintenance." And I realized: I've been performing ease my entire life.

It Was Just a Fork — Until It Wasn’t

Yesterday I reached into the silverware drawer to grab a fork.

My favorite forks — the ones with just the right balance, the right weight, the perfect tines — were in the dishwasher.

I grabbed another one and told myself, “It’s fine. Just eat.”

---

But it wasn’t fine.

The tines were stubby and awkward. I didn’t like the way it felt in my hand. I’ve never liked that fork.

And right next to it — right there — was a smaller one I do like. Smooth. Precise. Balanced.

So I went back and swapped them.

Three seconds. No witnesses. Just me and a drawer full of silverware.

---

And as I did, I heard a voice in my head say:

“There you go again. So high maintenance.”

---

I stopped.

Not because anyone said it out loud.

Because I said it to myself.

That voice — the one that rolls its eyes at my preferences, that mocks me for caring about small things, that keeps score of how much I ask for — that voice is mine now.

I learned it from somewhere, sure. Picked it up along the way. Boyfriends, bosses, family members, cultural messages about women who want things “just so.”

But I’m the one still carrying it.

---

And here’s what hit me standing there with a fork in my hand:

How many times have I overridden what I actually wanted — even when I was alone — because I was afraid of being “too much”?

How many times have I chosen the wrong fork, the uncomfortable chair, the thing that doesn’t quite fit...

Not because someone was watching.

But because I was still performing for an imaginary audience that wasn’t even there.

---

That’s what decades of being told you’re “too much” does.

It doesn’t just change how you act around other people.

It changes how you treat yourself when you’re alone.

You start policing your own preferences.
Judging your own needs.
Minimizing your own comfort.

You become your own critic. Your own eye-roller. Your own dismissal.

---

And the wildest part?

And it wasn’t even about the fork.

It never is.

Something so small, so insignificant, that swapping it took three seconds and affected no one but me.

And I still heard that voice.

---

So here’s what I’m learning:

It’s not about the fork.

It’s about the decades of training that taught me my preferences were a burden.

That wanting what I want makes me difficult.
That having standards makes me demanding.
That knowing what feels right makes me high maintenance.

But here’s what I know now:

Having preferences isn’t high maintenance.

It’s self-knowledge.

And honoring them — even the small ones, even when no one’s watching — isn’t selfish.

It’s practice.

Practice for the bigger moments when I’ll need to trust that I know what’s right for me.

---

Because if I can’t choose the fork I like in my own kitchen...

How will I choose the life I want in this chapter?

How will I know which friendships to release and which to deepen?

How will I trust myself to start the thing I’ve been afraid to start—the painting, the business, the trip, the boundary?

How will I walk away from what no longer fits without second-guessing myself into staying?

How will I rewire my thinking about my life if I can’t even honor a preference over silverware?

How will I know my own voice if I’ve spent my whole life talking myself out of it?

---

So I chose the fork.

And then I sat down and ate lunch.

And you know what?

The meal tasted better.

Not because the fork was magic.

But because I stopped abandoning myself over something that mattered to me.

Even if it was small.
Even if no one else would notice.
Even if that voice in my head tried to tell me I was being ridiculous.

I chose me.

---

And if you’ve been trained to override yourself...

To second-guess your preferences...
To perform ease even when you’re alone...
To treat your own needs like they’re negotiable...

Let this be your permission:

You’re allowed to want what you want.

Even if it’s small.
Even if it seems silly.
Even if that voice in your head tries to shame you for it.

---

The fork isn’t the point.

The point is: You get to choose.

And every time you honor that — even in the smallest way — you’re rewiring the voice that told you not to.

---

Today, pick one small thing you’ve been tolerating.

The wrong fork. The uncomfortable chair. The pants that don’t fit. The playlist you don’t like. The coffee mug that feels wrong in your hand.

And change it.

Not because it matters to anyone else.

Because it matters to you.

And that’s enough.

And if something stirred in you while reading this — if you’re starting to realize how often you’ve overridden yourself, even in the smallest moments — I made something for you.

It’s called “Building Trust with Yourself: A Clear Process for Reconnecting to Your Inner Wisdom.”

Not a workbook. Not a challenge.

Just a steady, quiet guide back to the part of you that already knows.

You can find it here: Building Trust iwth Yourself. https://monirose.gumroad.com/l/buildingtrust

---

And right now, through January 7th, paid annual subscriptions are 20% off.

When you join, I’ll send you “Building Trust with Yourself” directly — along with everything else I create here: daily essays like this one, the Joy Ledger practice, occasional soul-based guides, and a front-row seat to this rewiring work in real time.

No extra content vault. No bonuses designed to convince you.

Just this work. This voice. This steady practice of coming home to yourself.

👉 Join now - 20% off through Jan 7

---

Start with the fork. Then keep going.