The Beginning
You were born without a script.
A howl, a breath, bare feet on wild earth
before your edges were sanded by polite silence,
before your questions were folded into textbooks,
your wonder mistaken for distraction.
They told you to become someone.
Someone useful. Someone liked.
Someone who doesn’t ask why the sky is burning
as long as the economy is thriving.
So you learned to dim,
to shrink inside checkboxes,
to wear masks and call it maturity.
But even then,
beneath the suits, beneath the quiet compliance,
you knew.
You knew the ground was aching.
You felt the hum of something ancient in your chest
when you stood barefoot on real soil,
And when the world cracks, as it always does
with fires, floods and false prophets,
you remembered:
healing is not a prescription.
It’s not a padded chair in a corner office.
It’s the shattering of illusion,
the kind that reveals not just your pain,
but the machinery that keeps selling it back to you.
To become whole
is to pick up your own pieces
without waiting for permission.
It is to touch your scars
and find stories, not shame.
It’s to meet the part of you
that once built cities from sticks,
who still believes in dragons,
and keeps a place for them at your table.
To become integrated
is not to polish the shadow away,
but to sit beside it,
break bread with it, and listen.
Let your rage teach you justice.
Let your grief unlock your empathy.
Then wear your silence like a pass
to the ancient order of those who’ve stopped explaining.
You will not trend.
You will not be tidy.
But you will be real
a living contradiction,
like all things holy:
grace tangled with grit,
wisdom dressed in laughter,
tenderness with fists clenched
And when the world asks you to choose
comfort or courage,
status or soul
you’ll answer, not with words,
but with the way you walk into rooms
and make them breathe again.
Because the real revolution
is the flame that stays lit
when the cameras go home.
It’s the quiet moment you decide
to stop abandoning yourself.
And in that moment
you don’t just heal.
You begin to lead.
Not from a throne,
but from the still, soft ground
that never forgot your name.