So I was out for a walk yesterday and suddenly got this image that planet earth is just one big nursing home for all the manifestations of God walking around with dementia, completely delusional 🤭 Today I attempted to write a poem about it that I thought I would share. The Residents Every morning, Earth opens the curtains. We wake in borrowed bodies, stardust in a clean shirt, and reach for our names. They are printed on our wristbands. We know what to call ourselves. Yet we have forgotten what we are. One of us keeps his worth in a bank. Another checks the mirror to see whether she still deserves to be loved. We quarrel over chairs, over whose God is God, over who has taken what we cannot find. We forget the moment that frightened us, but carry the fright from room to room. A whole world of divine dementia, the infinite insisting it is running out. Happiness sits beside us. We have forgotten her face. We search for her everywhere, watching the clock, terrified we will run out of time. One of us sits down beside another and begins to peel an orange. The room grows fragrant. Then someone laughs, and the sound travels down the hall. We lose our place in the argument. We lose track of the time. God feeds God a little piece of sun, laughing so hard she has forgotten to be afraid of dying.

I just listened to the overt/covert Narcism series, per Hollys suggestion, but I am so far from cracking open. Any suggestions on how to feel into the pain of our patterns vs intellectualizing? I know this is the most basic problem in growth work ever but Im really hurting because I am hearing and ready to see the ways I play games and wound but cant connect w that pain and thus release. My pain stays dramatic and intellectual now raw and renewing. Very open to feedback please.

I saw it coming— that quiet bend in the road where I always veer off course. I told myself I’d turn this time. I had the tools, the mantras, the breath. I knew better. But still— I said yes with a trembling no caught in my throat. I smiled while my insides sank, served while bleeding, held space when I was crumbling in my own. It’s not ignorance anymore— it’s muscle memory. It’s the echo of a girl who learned love was earned through nurturing. And now— here I am, awake and aching, watching myself do what I swore I wouldn’t. This is the grief no one talks about— not the pain of what they did, but the pain of what I keep doing to myself even after I know where it leads. But I will not shame the version of me still tangled in survival. I will meet her gently, hold her hand when she stumbles, and whisper: “We’re still unlearning. We’re still becoming. It’s okay to begin again.”

Today I felt something crack open. It began with anger—sharp and breathless, pacing through my body like it didn’t know where else to go. Not rage for destruction, but anger as awareness. The kind that says, “Enough. No more shrinking. No more silence.” So I took it for a long walk. Let it rise, breathe, move. Then I worked it through my body—exercising, sweating, and releasing the fire. And when the adrenaline and endorphins faded, what remained was not fury. It was grief. A deep, wrenching heartbreak. Grief for the parts of me I had to leave behind just to be loved. Grief for the child in me who never felt wanted. And grief for the woman I am now, standing at the threshold of healing, knowing not everyone will meet me there. Because this is what’s unfolding between my mother and me: You told me I was changing, and you didn’t mean it kindly. You miss the girl who swallowed her truth to keep the peace, the one who made herself small so you could feel big, who bent herself into silence to avoid your storms. You said I seem angry now, but this isn’t rage, it’s clarity. For the first time, I’m naming what hurt. I’m refusing to pretend. I’m pulling my love back from the altar of self-sacrifice and offering it to the parts of me you taught to disappear. You say you want honesty, but only if it doesn’t sting. Only if it keeps you comfortable. Only if it doesn’t ask you to look in the mirror. You question my healing—as if growth should come without mess, without edges, without discomfort. You say you liked me better before. Of course you did. I was easier to love when I abandoned myself for you. But I’m not that daughter anymore. And the truth is, I’m not trying to hurt her. I’m just trying to hold myself—finally, fully. But that holding feels like a betrayal to someone who’s only known love as self-sacrifice. So I’m grieving deeply. For the version of us that I wanted to exist. For the tenderness I hoped she’d one day offer. For the closeness that still feels like a distant dream.

There’s a part of me that never raised her voice, who whispered apologies for simply having needs. She learned to shrink, to smooth the edges of others’ storms, and call it love. She gave what wasn’t returned, offered her heart like an open field and called it grace— because she didn’t yet know that betrayal wears many masks, not just the lipstick of infidelity, but the silence after stolen dreams. There’s a part of me that made peace too early, called resignation enlightenment, held my breath through loss so no one else would have to feel it. She is tired. She is brave. And she’s not broken. Today, I sang her name into the woods and let her cry. She shook the grief from my hips, where all the betrayals were buried— the money, the mothers, the men who asked for everything and offered so little in return. She didn’t want revenge. She wanted release. And there, inside laughter and holy tremors, I found her not wrong, not weak, just never witnessed for how much she carried in silence. Now, the warrior rises, not armored, but clear— not to fight, but to stand in the dignity of what she finally sees: That I am not the cause of their suffering. That peace is not the same as pleasing. That boundaries are a form of self-love, not disrespect or betrayal. And that trusting myself is no longer a question— it is my commandment. I do not owe ease to others at the cost of my own becoming.