I Hear You
Not the words you say. But the ones you choke on before they escape your mouth. The flicker of something in your eyes before you scroll past. The passive-aggressive silence.
“She’s into that spiritual stuff now.”
“She used to be more grounded.”
“I don’t know what happened to her.”
You say it like I lost something.
But what you mean is:
“She stopped performing.”
“She stopped asking for permission.”
“She stopped fitting into the version of her I could control.”
Let me be clear - I didn’t vanish. I didn’t “go weird.” I just decided to remember the language you buried under fear, image, and performance. The language you used to whisper to the moon when no one was watching. The one you forgot how to speak… but not how to feel.
And now that I’m fluent again? It terrifies you.
Because deep down, your body still knows it too. And it burns a little when I say things out loud that you’ve been trying to numb. But I’m not doing this for your comfort. I’m doing it for my soul.
And maybe, just maybe, for the part of you that’s still screaming behind your curated life.
The Language You Forgot
(and the one your soul is aching to remember)
Have you ever wondered why someone’s presence unsettles you, not in a chaotic way, but in that quiet, disarming way that makes your chest tighten and your thoughts scramble for something to hold onto?
It’s not because they are “too much,” or because your personalities clash, or because the conversation was awkward. It’s because they speak a language your mind has tried to forget, but your soul still understands perfectly.
You see, there are people in this world who do not operate from the surface of things.
They don’t care much for small talk or status updates. They listen in layers and observe what your mouth doesn’t say. And when they speak, something deep in your body reacts, because they’re not just talking.
They’re remembering you. The real you.
Not the curated one or the agreeable one. Not the one who knows how to answer emails in a “professional” tone. But the one who’s been quietly screaming behind your eyes for years.
People like me don’t show up to make you uncomfortable for fun. It is just that our energy holds codes that disrupt performance. We walk into a room, and we don’t match the rhythm. Because the rhythm was built to numb you, and we came to wake you up.
It’s not arrogance. It’s resonance.
When you feel irritated by someone like me, before you write it off as “not my vibe”, consider the possibility that you’re responding to a part of yourself that has been starved of honesty.
I’m not offering small sips of truth. I’m offering a flood. And most people aren’t ready to get wet.
But let me tell you something, just in case you’re still listening...
The ones who speak in metaphors, in memories, in sensations rather than facts…
We are not confused or lost.
We are not living in some spiritual illusion.
We are fluent in a language you’ve buried beneath productivity and performance.
You forgot how to speak it, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. You’ve just been surrounding yourself with people who don’t remind you that it exists.
People like me will remind you. Even when it’s inconvenient or when it burns. Not because we want to cause pain, but because we know the ache of silence.
We remember what it’s like to abandon ourselves just to be liked. And we refuse to keep pretending that’s normal.
So if this post makes you uncomfortable…
Take a moment to sit with it and don't scroll past it too quickly.
That slight twist in your chest? That flinch of defensiveness? That’s not judgment.
That’s recognition of your own soul knocking, whispering, “Finally...someone is saying it.”
You don’t have to agree or change your whole life. But just for a moment…let yourself remember. Because once you do, you’ll never again believe that the mask is safer than your truth.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize it wasn’t me who sounded different. It was you who forgot you used to understand.