“Woke” and “un‑woke” are just brand labels for a shelf I used to shop from when I outsourced my reflection to other people’s eyes.
For years, I lived inside a high‑budget movie about me, well lit, well scored, and not real until presence walked onto the set and asked why I kept rehearsing a life that didn’t require my body to be here.
The ego speaks first because speed is its weapon; discipline is choosing the second voice, the one that arrives with breath, not applause.
Culture is an operating system that boots at birth; you don’t need to smash the machine to uninstall the bloatware that turns guilt into a leash whenever you choose yourself.
Choosing yourself is not betrayal; it’s the only way your giving is unmixed contact instead of performance, devotion without debt. The practice is unglamorous: notice, pause a beat longer than comfort, pick the response that embarrasses your ego but calms your nervous system, and let that be your new ritual of honesty. There’s a store where I stopped buying narratives; they only stock what I can carry out as myself, one breath, one boundary, one yes that means yes, one no that doesn’t audition for forgiveness.
Presence isn’t a pose; it’s the unbranded fit that finally feels like skin, and it’s available the moment the movie credits roll and the lights come up on now.
It’s a daily commitment: focus, return, presence.
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