Culture. Expectations. Diagnoses written in ink that never quite fit.
Sometimes a single human being is pressed into shapes they never chose—called anxious, depressed, difficult, sensitive—when perhaps they were simply wired differently, perhaps autistic, perhaps just human in a world that doesn’t know how to listen.
We grow up believing in systems that reward performers—those who say the right words in the right order, who sound like safety to the ear. And yet, trusting blindly in those performances can quietly steal years. Life becomes a maze of misdiagnosis, anxiety, avoidance. A constant performance of your own, just to appear “enough.”
But then comes awareness—the painful gift of seeing cause and effect. Noticing the actors, the scripts, the disguises we wear to fit in. And realizing: none of it has to define you.
At the end, we get one life. One fragile, precious shot at curiosity, at truth, at being. Why spend half of it drowning in anxiety or retreating into avoidance?
We are precious beings. Our task isn’t just to give ourselves away to the world—it is to become the world to ourselves. To turn inward, to tend the soil where authenticity grows.
It always starts from the beginning. And perhaps, it always starts again—right now.
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