As we grow, we pick up stories. Stories from the people around us, from the things we witness, from the words spoken over us before we even had the language to question them. And over time, those stories quietly become beliefs. They settle into the body, root themselves in the nervous system, and begin to steer the course of our lives — often without us ever realizing it.
For me, it was the prophecies. A collection of them, gathered across years, layered one on top of another. Some carried hope. Some carried devastation. And I wasn’t fully aware of just how deeply they had taken hold of me until recently, when I finally stopped long enough to look.
What I found was fear. A fear so woven into my daily experience that it had started to feel like just the texture of being alive. Overwhelm sitting heavy on my chest. A hypervigilance that never fully rests. I’ve been doing my best not to attach myself to those feelings — not to fuse with them and call them me — but instead to get curious. To trace them back. To ask: where have I felt this before?
It always leads me back to a little girl. Small, wide-eyed, terrified of the world in a way that her small body could barely hold. Certain that some catastrophic end was coming. That the ground beneath her feet was never quite solid.
As an adult, that fear had softened into the background. A far-off echo, barely audible. For years I lived without it crowding me. But then, about a year and a half ago, something shifted. It came rushing back — not as a distant memory, but as a present, urgent, daily reality. Like a wound that had never fully closed and finally split back open.
Now it is almost a battle to simply live inside this fear. My danger sensor screams constantly, as though it was built — calibrated, really — around the weight of end times prophecy. As though some part of me learned to read the world through that lens so long ago that it forgot it was wearing it.
And yet every single day, I show up. I do my best to still be a human. To function. To move through the ordinary rhythms of a life that society expects — work, bills, conversations, responsibilities — while carrying something enormous and largely invisible beneath it all. Some days I just want to scream. Because this isn’t normal, is it? The way we collectively agree to keep going through the motions, to act as though the world is not shaking, as though something profound isn’t unfolding all around us. There is a kind of madness in that performance.
So instead, I practice. Every day, I practice returning to my center. I pull my energy back from the noise of it all and try to plant myself in what is directly in front of me — my home, my land, the immediate and the tangible. The sacred small.
I pray for those who hold power over the safety of the many. I pour love into them, even when it is hard, even when I am angry, even when I am afraid. Because sometimes I think — maybe if enough love reaches them, something in them will soften. Maybe they’ll begin to see what I see. Maybe their hearts will begin to move differently.
And through all of it, I hold onto what I know at the deepest level.
We will continue. Life will be beautiful after this. That knowing is quiet, but it does not waver.
I’d love to know — what belief has been steering your life without your permission? Drop it below — even just a word or two. You don’t have to have it all figured out to belong in this conversation.
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