The Ache That Means You’re Awake

Close your eyes.
Feel the weight of your body.
The ground beneath you.
The quiet support that is always there.

Take a deep breath in... Hold it...
And let it go.

Again,

Again, inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.

Now let your shoulders drop.
Unclench your jaw.
Soften your belly.

There’s an ache you might be carrying. Not from one event, but from a thousand small cracks in what once felt solid. And that ache? It makes sense.

You’re not broken. You’re responding.
To a world that feels untethered. To cruelty disguised as authenticity. To disconnection sold as freedom. So let yourself feel it. Breathe into it.

Inhale.
Exhale.

Now place a hand on your chest.
Feel what’s still steady inside you.

Silently say to yourself:
I’m allowed to be tired.
I’m allowed to feel this ache.
I’m still human—and that’s a good thing.

Now, ask gently:
What do I still believe in?
What hasn’t changed in me?

Maybe it’s love.
Or kindness.
Or a quiet refusal to perform.

Breathe that in. Let it steady you.

Inhale.
Exhale.

Repeat silently or aloud:
I don’t need to fix everything.
But I can begin again.
With honesty.
With care.
With something real.

Let’s close with one final breath:
Inhale, truth.
Exhale, release.

You’re not falling apart.
You’re falling back into what matters.

And that… is holy.