Burning Beneath

What does it even mean when someone says you’re “all over the place”?
Is it a critique? A judgment? A way to say you’re not fitting neatly into the mold they’ve come to expect?

The world has these invisible lines—norms—drawn by society, drawn by culture, drawn by roles we’ve inherited: wife, husband, mother, father, sister, brother. Each one wrapped in obligations and silent rules. We’re expected to follow the script without ever asking who wrote it, or why.

But here’s what gets me:
Even when two people share the same role—say, we’re both mothers—what’s considered “normal” for one may not be normal for the other. So when someone tells me I’m acting “out of the norm,” what they’re really saying is, “You’re not doing it like I would.”
And that’s not truth.
That’s judgment.

My norm is mine. It’s shaped by my life, my needs, my reality. It’s defined by being unapologetically honest with myself and not bending to fit into someone else’s expectations.

I’m not trying to provoke. I’m not trying to fight. I’m not trying to make anyone uncomfortable.
I’m just trying to process a statement that left me feeling uneasy all day.

It came from someone I care about—someone who probably meant well. But even then, it stung. Because whether wrapped in love or not, judgment still cuts.
And I’ve bled enough.

Here’s what I know to be true:
I have weathered storms others couldn’t imagine.
I have stood my ground through chaos.
I’ve never walked away from those who depend on me. Not once.

I’m not talking about my extended family. I’m talking about my children. My core. My heart.
I have been their rock since day one, and I will remain so until my last breath.
Everything I am—divine and flawed—is for them.
But here’s what I’m learning now: it’s okay for some of that to be for me too.

For the longest time, I’ve denied myself. I’ve pushed my dreams aside, labeling them luxuries I couldn’t afford. Every dollar was weighed against the needs of my kids. Every choice made with them first, always.

So yes, when I spent part of my tax return on my dream van—my Warrior Van—it might have looked “extra” to someone else. But to me?
It was sacred. It was long overdue.
It wasn’t reckless—it was reclaiming a piece of me.

People look and assume.
They see minimalism and think deprivation.
They see my short hair and think I’m trying to be someone I’m not.
But here’s the truth: I cut my hair because I don’t have the energy to maintain it.
I wear clean clothes that smell good, because that’s enough.
I own two pairs of jeans, four shirts, two sets of indoor wear, and one pair of shoes. My slippers are falling apart—and I don’t care. They serve their purpose.

Luxury is not about labels. For me, luxury is peace. It’s freedom. It’s authenticity.

I’ve never been lazy.
I’ve never relied on handouts.
I’ve worked my entire life—not just jobs, but emotional labor, mental battles, spiritual wars.
And even when I couldn’t work in the traditional sense, I gave.
I gave support. I gave love. I gave the last dollar in my pocket. Because I believe in the law of return.
I believe the universe sees me.

But I’m tired.
Tired of having to explain myself.
Tired of defending my choices.
Tired of opening my heart in what I thought were safe spaces, only to be told—through words, looks, or silence—that I’m “too much” or “in the wrong place.”

I’ve made the mistake of trusting too fast, opening up too deep, and believing that I could be fully seen without consequence.
But I’ve learned, again and again, that honesty—real, unfiltered honesty—is often too loud for people who are used to whispers.

I’m not bitter.
I’m just awake.

What I long for is a space where people can show up as they are.
A space where we say what we need without shame:

• “I need to share, but I don’t want feedback.”
• “I just need someone to listen.”
• “I need a hug.”
• “I need silence.”
• “I need to cry without being fixed.”

Imagine if we set that expectation before we even began.
Imagine the safety. The softness. The humanity.

And when someone needs more space, more time—whether it’s their first breakdown or their tenth—we don’t rush them out. We don’t roll our eyes. We hold space. We prioritize support over structure.

Yes, I’ve been introduced to yoga, meditation, spiritual circles, and sacred ceremonies. I’ve prayed in silence and danced in healing. And I honor all of it.
But those are tools—not destinations.

What I need, more than anything, is a place to shed.
To drop the armor.
To lay down the performance.
To speak what’s burning beneath without fear of rejection.

And maybe… just maybe, that place doesn’t exist in a room full of people.
Maybe that place exists here—in my words.

Maybe this is my sanctuary.
Maybe writing is the circle I’ve been seeking all along.

I’m not here to be judged.
I’m not here to be fixed.
I’m not here to receive opinions.

I’m here to release.
To write it out.
To look inward and let it all find a way out.

And if you find yourself reading this and nodding silently, maybe you’ve been searching too.
Maybe this space is for you as well.
No expectations. No masks. No pretending.

Just truth.

Raw. Messy. Sacred.

Exactly the way it’s meant to be.