Shadow Comes Home

You feel it before you name it— that thin, electric tremor under the skin. A signal. A shift. A quiet warning that something inside you has started to move. It happens in an ordinary moment: a breath held too long, a thought you can't chase away, a silence that suddenly feels heavier than noise. You freeze. Not in fear— in recognition. Because a truth you've tried to outrun is finally catching up. It doesn't shout. It doesn't break anything. It simply appears— like a figure stepping out of fog— patient, inevitable, unblinking. And in that moment, you understand: You're not being asked to change. You're being asked to stop pretending. To stop rehearsing strength. To stop curating your life into something admirable but empty. To stop building walls around the parts of you that still breathe. The question rises—soft, but impossible to ignore: If you stopped performing… who would you become? You don't know the answer yet. But you can feel the ground shifting, the air thickening, the old story loosening its grip. Something is beginning. And for the first time—you don't run. You listen. You open. You let the tremor become a pulse. Because this time, you're not here to survive the moment. You're here to meet yourself inside it.