Identity isn’t a mirror, it’s a molting. The layers that feel safest are often costumes stitched from praise, punishment, and the quiet survival tricks learned in crowded rooms.
To meet the self beneath, shed the stories that made winning feel like worth and silence feel like virtue.
Unlearn the reflex to explain, to please, to perform. Unlearn the names handed over like labels on a jar. Then listen, beneath the static, there’s a pulse that doesn’t bargain. It won’t argue for space; it simply fills it once you stop holding your breath.
Let the mask crack. Let the shards fall without sorting them back into a face that fits. What remains isn’t a smaller you; it’s the sky after the scaffolding is gone.
Step into that open air, and watch how meaning chooses you back.
0 Comments