I watch the light slowly retreat from the room, leaving behind that peculiar, violet glow that heralds the night. I no longer hold a map in my hands; the map has shifted inside me, traced upon my veins and my breath. It is strange how insight arrives not with thunder, but as a quiet settling of layers, like a scalpel carefully dissecting the stratified tissue of my daily life to reveal the pulsing, sometimes bleeding core of what I truly am. This is no longer a search; it is an act of voluntary capitulation to the truth, that moment when I stopped running from my own shadow and turned to look it in the eye. And in its eyes, I saw not a monster, but an abandoned child.
In a psychoanalytic sense, I realize I have lived as a stranger in my own home. I kept the rooms of my Ego tidy and clean, perfect for guests, while in the basement of the unconscious I kept my fears, my unlived desires, and that fragile feminine vulnerability which seemed to me an unforgivable weakness, locked away. The path to my own sun inevitably passes through this damp darkness. Spiritual awakening turned out not to be an escape to the heights, but a descent into the depths, an integration of the fragmented parts of my womanhood that I had rejected in my struggle to be loved, accepted, "enough." It is as if, all my life, I have been building an image, a persona woven from the expectations of others, while my true face waited patiently beneath the surface, like a seed beneath heavy winter soil.
There is a peculiar silence that descends when you realize that the enemy you have fought all your life was not the world, but your own resistance to reality. In this silence, my prayer is born. Not the rote kind, but the prayer of presence—the whisper of my soul, finally allowing itself to be heard. I know now that pain is not a punishment, but an invitation. An invitation to expand the capacity of my heart. All the tools I sought on the outside turned out to be rituals of internal reconciliation. Reconciliation with the girl I once was—the one who learned to be silent to be convenient, and who now, in this quiet evening, is granted the right to speak again.
It is a slow process, akin to the movement of water that, over time, smooths even the sharpest stones in the riverbed. My work is an archaeology of the soul, but illuminated by the spirit. It is not enough merely to dig up the debris of the past; I must wash it with understanding and, what is harder, with forgiveness. Forgiveness toward myself proves to be the highest wall. I often stand before it, paralyzed by guilt for missed opportunities, for loves I did not live out fully, or for words spoken in anger. But I am learning that my imperfection is sacred. That it is precisely through the cracks in my human nature that the light enters. This image—of the broken vessel which, precisely because of its fracture, can let the rays through—becomes a central metaphor in my days.
I feel the rhythm of my breathing change. It is no longer that shallow, anxious intake of air characteristic of survival, but a deeper, belly breath that seems to say: "I am here. I am a woman. That is enough." Humility is the key. In the world of ambition, humility is often interpreted as weakness, but here, in the space of my inner dialogue, it is the greatest strength. It is the admission that I do not control everything, that I am part of a greater flow. This is the transition from "doing" to "being." How often have I defined myself through my roles—as mother, as lover, as professional? And what remains when all this is stripped away? The nakedness of the soul remains, trembling but alive.
In this process of turning inward, I also meet fear. The fear of emptiness. The horror of the lack of an object, of which the analysts speak. But my new perspective transforms this emptiness. It turns it from a lack into a space for the sacred, for that higher intelligence that breathes through me. The void becomes a womb. In it, my new self ripens. I understand that the movement upward is not a straight line. It is a spiral. I often return to the same places, to the same old traumas, but each time I am on a slightly higher level, with a little more awareness. This repetition is not failure, but the cycle of healing inherent to female nature.
There are days when melancholy wraps around me like a soft, grey shawl. Before, I fought it. Now, I invite it to the table. It is a messenger. It speaks to me of the longing for wholeness that never fully disappears. Melancholy is the price I pay for depth. It is the shadow of love—love for what I could have been, and grief for what I have lost along the way. But I am no longer alone in this feeling. I understand that this is the universal fate—to be stretched between the earthly and the celestial.
I realize how much energy I have spent maintaining illusions. The illusion of control, the illusion of safety. True safety comes only from accepting uncertainty. To walk toward the sun means being ready to burn. To burn everything false, everything dead. This is a painful process, like the flaying of old skin. But beneath it appears a new one—more sensitive, but also more alive, capable of feeling even the slightest breath of wind.
I stop writing to look out the window. Night has fallen. The world sleeps, but inside me, something has awakened. This is not ecstasy. The emotion is quiet, settled. Like water in a deep well. The sacred is hidden in the ordinary. Enlightenment does not happen on the peaks, but here, now, as I feel the texture of the paper under my fingers. It is in the ability to see the divine in the detail. The whole world becomes a text I must decode, a message sent personally to me.
This is a return. A return home. But where is this home? It is a state of consciousness where conflict is replaced by peace. Where my inner critic, that relentless judge, has finally fallen silent. Where I can relax into my own skin and say to myself: "I am."
The path continues into tomorrow. Transformation is my quiet revolution. It changes my vision. And suddenly, amidst the greyness, I notice the golden threads connecting everything. I understand that my pain is the pain of the world, and my joy is the joy of the world. The boundaries blur. The Ego becomes transparent. And through it, like stained glass, the light can finally pass. Herein lies the magic: not in becoming a saint, but in becoming fully, painfully, beautifully human. And in this humanity, to discover the divine.
If there is something I keep from this night, it is the sense of openness. I do not know what awaits me tomorrow. But something has changed. My attitude. I no longer look at my scars as defects, but as a map of the terrain I have traversed. With faith. Not blind faith in miracles, but a quiet faith in the meaning of the path. Because there is no lost time in the economy of the soul. Everything is gathered, everything is processed. And I, with all my uncertainty, take one more step. Towards the sun. Towards myself.
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