There comes a moment in life — not always loud, not always dramatic — when something quietly refuses to stay buried.
Maybe it’s a truth you’ve avoided.
A feeling you didn’t want to name.
A story you told yourself that no longer fits.
For me, those moments didn’t look like lightning bolts or lit candles (though I’ve had my fair share of both). It looked more like this:
I was standing in my kitchen. Or lying on the floor. Or staring into space while someone else was talking. And something inside me whispered,
“Say it. Say the thing.”
And I've missed many such moments. Let them pass without speaking up. Moments where I let myself shrink: out of fear... out of "managing the moment"... protecting the peace... calming someone else's nerves. I'd like to say that I've said "the thing" more than I have. But I haven't. These moments didn’t come with perfect clarity — they came with a tight chest, a flutter in my stomach, or a heat rising in my throat. Sometimes the truth I never spoke was about a boundary I needed in that moment. Sometimes it was about a desire. Or regret. Or power I had abandoned.
Vision like this is 20/20. I'm looking back and seeing so many of these "micro-moments" and how they all built up over time. It’s easy to think that seeing a truth is enough. But here’s what I’ve also learned:
There is a kind of magic that only happens when you speak it out loud.
It’s like cleaning out a closet in your house.
You can open the door and acknowledge the mess. You can even sort through it in your mind. But until you physically reach in and start pulling things out — holding them in your hands, saying “This stays” or “This goes” — the space doesn’t actually change.
Speaking truth is like that. It’s the reaching in. The claiming. The shift from knowing to becoming.
The First Time I Spoke a Truth I’d Been Avoiding
There was one truth I had danced around for years - decades if I'm being honest. I knew it. My body knew it. But I had kept it tucked away, thinking I could keep going without it ever needing to see daylight.
But it started leaking out in other ways — in tension, in fatigue, in the dulling of my joy. In sadness, in despair, in nihilism.
When I finally spoke it (maybe not "out loud", but in a letter), my hands trembled. I cried. A lot. And yet… something settled. Not in a dramatic way — but in a “click” sort of way, like a door that finally shut properly.
And I realized:
Truth doesn’t always come to blow your life apart. Sometimes it comes to help you come back together.
What I Want You to Know
You don’t need to be “on a spiritual path” to feel this kind of reckoning.
You just need to be human.
To notice the moments when something deep inside you says, “This doesn’t fit anymore.”
To stop pretending you’re okay with something you’re not.
To name the desire you’ve been afraid to admit.
To say: I feel this. I need this. I am this.
You can whisper it.
You can write it in a note.
You can say it in the mirror.
Or to a friend.
Or to a tree.
But say it.
Say the thing.
Because even if nothing around you changes immediately, you will.
And that’s where the real power begins.