11 When the Storyline Lets Go

She didn’t come to explain, or to teach.
She came to listen — to her own voice as it softened, uncurled, and spoke.

What emerged wasn’t a story, or a lesson.
It was a quiet reckoning with the urge to shape things too soon.
The tenderness of catching herself trying to make sense, to craft an arc —
when life was asking her to meander.

She names the presence of ego. Of control.
She welcomes the visitor of joy, not only grief.
And she commits — not to structure, but to truth.

This isn’t for them.
This isn’t even for the story.
This is for the soul who dares to speak
from the embers — unguarded, unknown, and wholly alive.