Some nights, the silence of the world is louder than noise. The wind stills. The roads empty. And if you sit quietly enough under the open sky, it feels like something out there is listening. That was the mood one night when I found myself alone, gazing upward at the full moon. Not just looking at it, but feeling it. The kind of feeling that presses on your chest like it knows what you’ve been carrying. And in that silence, I heard it clearly, not in words but in certainty: You need to lock in.

At first, I laughed. Not out loud, but the way your mind laughs at itself when it pretends it’s not lost. But the moon didn’t blink. It stayed right there, quiet and unmoving, still glowing with a kind of authority that didn’t need convincing. So I listened again. And it made sense.

To lock in is to commit. Not halfway, not with excuses, not when it’s convenient. It means no more drifting through options or waiting for energy to arrive. It means deciding that forward is the only direction and removing the soft cushions of distraction and delay.

The moon didn’t explain why I needed to. It didn’t need to. Deep down, I already knew. There are seasons of preparation, and then there are seasons of execution. The first teaches you the landscape, the obstacles, the reasons why something might not work. The second demands that you move anyway.

Locking in isn’t glamorous. It’s repetition. It’s choosing the long game. It’s showing up when the voice in your head would rather coast. It’s waking up a bit earlier. It’s staying a little later. It’s saying no to things that blur your vision. And it’s remembering why you started when everything tries to make you forget.

The moon, constant and far, isn’t concerned with trends or moods. It waxes and wanes, it moves through phases, but it always returns. It reminded me that locking in doesn’t mean perfect. It means consistent. It means aligned.

So I’m doing it. Locking in. I’m choosing to show up fully, to stop explaining away what I haven’t finished, and to live like time matters. I’m trading comfort for clarity. Not forever, but for now. Because the moon was right. The moment to drift is over.

I spoke with the moon, and it didn’t give me advice. It gave me a truth I already knew. And now, it’s on me to follow it.