And I laugh, because the punchline is always the same,

The one who wanted to quit was never running the show.

I keep going because I have discovered that falling apart is not a detour.

It is a sacred disassembly.

The mystics knew this.

The alchemists drew it.

The tantrikas danced it.

Dissolve.

Let the old structures panic.

Let the ego issue emergency sirens.

What emerges is not a better version of you. It is the absence of the one who needed improvement. And... See more

You can drag yourself to the altar of the present moment in pyjamas and resentment. The sacred does not mind. The sacred has seen worse. The sacred invented worse.

The path does not require enthusiasm.

Only honesty.

I notice that awareness never gets tired, even when the body wants to resign and the mind drafts dramatic farewell letters.

Thoughts scream, “I can’t do this anymore!”

Awareness yawns and says, “Fascinating. Continue.”

This is the secret monks don’t put on postcards.

despair depends on the idea that this moment is a mistake. That you took a wrong turn somewhere between birth and now. That the universe is watching with crossed arms, unimpressed.

I remember that existence has already said yes to me.

Not once.

Not conditionally.

Not after I fixed my posture, healed my trauma, or learned the correct pronunciation of Sanskrit.

It said yes before I could object.

When I feel like giving up, I do not reach for hope.

Hope is noisy. Hope fidgets. Hope keeps asking the future for permission.