The Resurrection
The Undoing of What No Longer Fits
I ran into a woman the other day, just an acquaintance, really, but she said something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
“I feel more wild lately,” she said. “Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s rock bottom. Or maybe I just don’t have the energy to pretend anymore.”
Then she laughed and added, “I saw a cop on the corner and thought, dare stop me.” She wasn’t doing anything reckless. She just wasn’t interested in performing her composure anymore.
And I got it.
There’s something rising in all of us lately. Not chaos. Not collapse. But clarity. The kind of clarity that comes after you've held too much for too long. The kind that makes you stop managing your tone. Stop shrinking your truth. Stop smiling politely while your chest caves in.
This isn’t unwellness.
This is the resurrection.
Because maybe healing doesn’t look like green juice and stillness and perfectly worded affirmations.
Maybe it looks like rage. Like relief. Like refusal.
Maybe it sounds like the softest no… or the loudest not anymore.
Maybe it’s grief and joy and clarity all tangled into one breath.
Maybe your wildness isn’t a breakdown.
Maybe it’s your nervous system whispering: I’m done pretending this is fine.
We’re not just tired from the grind.
We’re tired of the dissonance.
The rules are slipping.
Truth feels like a moving target.
Our collective reality is fracturing.
And our minds, wired for coherence and connection, are doing what they must to survive.
We numb.
We snap.
We scroll.
We shut down.
Not because we’re broken.
Because we’re human.
Your brain was never built to witness genocide in the same feed as baby photos. It wasn’t designed to digest hundreds of opinions before coffee. Or to slap on a smile while the world burns quietly in the background.
So if you feel raw, undone, lost inside your own life, you're not failing. You’re waking up.
The world may not make sense right now.
But your reaction to it does.
And here’s what I know:
What looks like rage might be resilience.
What looks like fatigue might be your body protecting itself.
What looks like madness might be the most honest thing you've felt all year.
This is the undoing of what no longer fits.
This is the body refusing to carry the weight of false belonging.
This is not your fall from grace.
This is your return to it.
If you’re waking up, see this weeks free resource to go deeper: Coming Back Online: A Guide for the Wild Return to Self
What Helps During the Resurrection
You’re not falling apart.
You’re shedding.
Rebelling against the numb.
Coming back online.
Here’s how to stay anchored while you rise:
Name what’s burning off
What belief, role, or expectation are you finally ready to release? Ask: What part of me am I no longer willing to betray to keep the peace?
Let wildness be a signal, not a setback
That rage. That ache. That clarity. It’s not chaos, it’s coherence. It’s your nervous system telling the truth before your mind can catch up.
Refuse the performance
You don’t need to shrink, soften, or explain your way through this. Resurrection isn’t always graceful. It’s honest. Let it be messy.
Choose grounding over gloss
Routines don’t need to be perfect to be powerful. Fold the laundry. Make the call. Take the walk. Pick one small thing that reminds your body it’s safe to stay.
Say yes to what feels real
Real over polished. Honest over agreeable. Brave over pleasing. This is your return. Let it sound like your voice.
The resurrection doesn’t always come in quiet epiphanies.
Sometimes it comes in a wild reclaiming of your wholeness.
Let it come.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s loud.
Even if it doesn’t look the way healing is supposed to look.
Because maybe you’re not falling apart.
Maybe you're coming back to life.
With love,
Dr. Zelana