Wildfire

There comes a point in healing where you stop trying to convince anyone that you were hurt.

You stop replaying the stories, not because they didn’t happen—but because your truth doesn’t need an audience anymore.

Some wounds never had a witness.

Some memories live on the edge of clarity—flashes, fragments, a heaviness that won’t explain itself.

And for too long, I’ve carried them like evidence.

Trying to prove the impact of things I might remember.

But pain doesn’t need proof to be real.

It leaves its imprint on the nervous system, on the way your body flinches at shadows, on the hollow in your chest where innocence once lived.

And what hurts most?

It’s not always the past itself.

It’s how people respond to your pain in the present.

The ones who claim to be “healers,” “teachers,” “remnant voices.”

They preach righteousness and restoration—but only when it’s tidy.

Only when your testimony uplifts their platform.

Only when you bleed quietly and beautifully.

Otherwise?

You’re labeled. Dismissed. Told you “need help.”

Not with kindness, but with condescension.

That’s not leadership.

That’s spiritual gaslighting.

And I’m done offering my suffering as someone else’s stage.

Let them keep their pulpits.

Let them perform for each other.

I’ll find my altar in the wild.

Where truth is raw.

Where grief is sacred.

Where the soul doesn’t need permission to break open.

And so this is my declaration:

I no longer carry proof for those who cannot hold pain.

Some will only listen when they can be seen as the answer.

I am no longer offering my suffering as their stage.

Let them keep their pulpits—I'll find my altar in the wild.

I release the memories that never had a witness.

I set fire to the stage they built for their glory,

and walk barefoot into the wilderness—

where the truth is raw, but so is the healing.

If this speaks to you—if you’ve ever felt silenced by those who should have seen you—know this:

You’re not wrong.

You’re not too much.

You don’t have to be polished to be powerful.

You were never meant to shrink to fit someone else’s version of holy.

Your fire is sacred.

And your healing is allowed to be loud.