Personal Reflection
Truth doesn’t wait for your readiness. It doesn’t knock before it enters — it walks straight through the front door, dripping rain and dirt across the floorboards of your comfort. We spend years pretending we want it, when what we really crave is permission to keep lying — softly, politely, to ourselves.
The truth shows up anyway. It doesn’t shout. It sits in the corner like an old ghost, watching you rehearse the same story about who you are. And when it finally speaks, it doesn’t ask for belief — it asks for surrender.
There’s a moment, quiet and awful, when you realize your reflection has stopped negotiating. You can’t hide behind good intentions or clever reasoning anymore. The truth has no interest in the version of you that survives through performance. It wants what’s underneath — the trembling, unvarnished you who still flinches at the sound of your own name.
We call that pain. I think it’s grace. The kind that doesn’t comfort but cleanses — the kind that strips you down to bone so you can finally stop pretending you’re made of anything else.
Reflective Prompt
What truth have you avoided because it threatened your favorite lie?
And if you faced it now — no armor, no story — what part of you would it ask to die so the rest could live?
Memoirs of Madness 