to be human wrecks you
and I'm learning to let it.
To be honest,
my being has been through the biggest purge of my life.
Like, soul-scraped. Like, ego in shambles. Like, I met God through my own reflection
and didn’t recognize Her at first.
Talk about meeting yourself? I have.
Talk about surrender? Oh, baby, I’ve been dragged to my knees and kissed there by the Divine Herself.
Not once. Not twice.
But enough times to know submission — the sacred kind —
isn’t weakness. It’s remembering.
I had to humble myself just enough to admit my dreams aloud.
You know what kind of ache that is? To speak your truth after a lifetime of surviving?
It’s like coughing up stars. I used to think hustling was the way. That control was safety. That being on top of it all meant I’d finally feel held. Turns out the Universe laughed at me. Gently. Lovingly.
And handed me back the truth:
This isn’t about micromanaging.
This isn’t about me.
This life, this whole breathless cosmic thing —
is about co-creation.
It’s about learning to trust. Again and again. Even when my knees shake.
Even when I don't know how the rent's getting paid.
I have no choice but to submit — not in defeat,
but in devotion…
to the Divine.
To my divine plan.
We all have one.
It’s just… how honest are you willing to be with yourself about it?
Don’t complain to me.
Don’t bring me your excuses or projections.
Alchemize your pain.
Turn it into gold.
Turn it into something worthy of being seen.
Where was I?
Oh yeah —
here.
These past few months have wrecked my character.
Burned my identity to ash.
I wouldn’t go back if you paid me.
I remember the day I quit my job in the middle of the night — no plan,
no safety net.
Was it smart?
Probably not.
Did I do it anyway?
Hell yeah.
And no, before you start conjuring some fantasy of a rich aunt funding my little Eat-Pray-Love moment —
nah.
I wish.
It’s just me. Me and God and whatever change are in my back pocket.
I started this journey in February 2024.
Just me, a 40L backpack, a dream, and a bleeding heart.
I wanted to travel.
To write stories.
To meet people. To feel something real.
That was my little girl dream, the one I had before survival wrapped its hands around my throat.
But back then, it felt impossible.
“I’m not rich.”
“I don’t have a stable job.”
“I don’t even have a passport.”
“The world is too expensive.”
Every reason became a chain.
I didn’t know how I was supposed to chase the world
while holding my own damn weight.
But I see now —
I started my business just to give myself permission.
To say yes to the first step. Even though I’m still figuring out how the hell to sell things,
even though some days the thought of showing up on Instagram makes me sick —
the real miracle? I’m learning to be human again. To discover the me that exists outside of survival. Outside of other people’s opinions. Outside of capitalism’s cage.
And for the first time in forever,
I’m sharing my writing.
My raw, unedited, bone-deep writing.
With the world.
Even when it terrifies me.
Even when I feel like maybe it’s too much.
Or not enough.
Or both at once.
Because truthfully —
I’m tired.
Tired of the push.
Tired of the grind.
Tired of feeding the bloated belly of a system that was never built for me anyway.
I don’t want to perform anymore.
I don’t want to pretend I’m okay when I’m unraveling.
I just want to eat.
Pray.
Love.
(Lol yes I said it.)
But seriously. I want to be in my human era.
I want to fall in love a hundred times.
Have my heart broken and stitched up with laughter and moonlight.
I want to stay up until 3 a.m. with friends who make my ribs hurt from joy.
I want to taste cake that makes me cry.
I want the sunrise to kiss me like it’s never seen a girl like me before.
I’m tired of pretending I’m supposed to shrink, just because I don’t fit the mold.
Tired of not believing in magic. Tired of bending myself into pieces for palatability.
And yeah — it took me losing what I thought was “success” in my business to see it.
Even after hiring a coach. Even after setting big goals.
And when they didn’t work?
It wrecked me.
But now I get it.
Now I see why they didn’t work.
Because they weren’t mine.
They were strategies dressed as salvation.
And I needed soul.
I love this kind of writing — this stream-of-consciousness chaos.
“What kind of writing is that?” the crowd shouts.
Well, it’s the kind that bleeds.
It’s the monkey mind.
It’s yoga, and trauma, and shadow work, and poetry, all holding hands.
It’s me learning that not every thought deserves a throne in my mind.
This whole shedding process has brought me to my knees.
I’ve begged God to just take me out.
Like, actually.
Because some nights,
I don’t know where up is.
I don’t even know if the tunnel has an end.
A friend in Mexico City said something that changed me:
“Life is a circle. There’s light, and there’s darkness.
When the darkness comes, you don’t fight it.
You don’t panic.
You close your eyes.
And feel your way through.”
So that’s what I’m doing.
Feeling.
Fumbling.
Facing the dark.
So what now?
How do I keep walking when I don’t know where the next step leads?
Maybe that’s the whole thing.
Maybe that’s being human.
Have you ever actually stripped down and asked yourself who you are?
No makeup. No clothes. No roles.
Just you.
No friends to mirror back your worth.
No money to hide behind.
Just you.
And a mirror you’ve been trying to avoid.
Who are you?
Because me —
on this adventure of a lifetime —
I keep meeting myself at deeper levels.
And it’s terrifying.
It’s the kind of scary that makes you want to dive into the abyss before it finds you first.
But spoiler alert:
It always finds you.
And maybe that’s the point.
To be stripped.
To be shattered.
To test yourself.
And if you’re as wild as me,
you’ll keep choosing it.
Keep choosing the abyss.
Keep choosing the real.
So here I am.
Bare.
Aching.
Free.
My writing is raw and soft and bleeding at the edges.
And maybe that’s the only thing that matters anymore.
Not the followers. Not the funnels. Not the goals.
But the fact that I keep showing up anyway.
Because someone, somewhere, needs a little light.
A little proof that it gets better.
That there’s magic in the mess.
I just want to embrace my humanness.
Even when society demonizes it.
Even when the world says change is dangerous.
I want to love.
And leave.
And grow.
And laugh so hard I forget my name.
And in the background,
I hear the Universe’s typewriter.
Click-clacking away.
Writing my next chapter.
Preparing me for God knows what.
Probably more darkness.
Probably more light.
Probably more me.
Because learning to be human
has been the most sacred
wrecking ball of all.
I’ve spent nights begging God to make it stop.
But now I know…
I wasn’t being punished.
I was being rebuilt.
So if you’re still reading this —
thank you.
This isn’t a conclusion.
There is no neat bow.
Just breath.
And silence.
Bye for now, I guess.
