Are you your thoughts-2
The second two stories in this series
When It’s Not Clear
It started with a message.
Short. Blunt.
From someone they cared about.
There was no greeting, no warmth.
Just a cold sentence that felt like a slap.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
Immediately, the thoughts roared to life.
“You ruined everything.”
“They never really understood you.”
“This is proof. You’re still broken.”
The old patterns snapped into place —
the tight chest, the shallow breath,
the spinning narrative of self-blame and defense.
All the clarity they thought they had… vanished.
In its place:
an avalanche of panic disguised as thought.
They felt the urge to react.
To explain.
To fix.
To get the last word.
To regain control.
But something held them back.
Not confidence.
Not wisdom.
Just a pause.
A remembered pause.
The barest thread of a question floated up:
“What’s actually happening — right now?”
Not the imagined future.
Not the mental courtroom.
But now.
They looked down.
Hands shaking.
Throat tight.
Belly clenched like a fist.
They put the phone down and closed their eyes.
And waited.
Not for an answer.
Just… to feel.
And slowly, aware-ing began again.
Noticing the heat.
The pulsing heart.
The wild mind.
Without managing.
Without interpreting.
Just… letting it all be felt.
Something softened.
Not everything.
But enough.
The thoughts kept trying to take center stage:
“Say something. Defend yourself. Don’t let them think it’s your fault.”
But this time, they didn’t believe them so quickly.
They remembered:
These are just sentences.
Just habits.
Not truth.
Not instruction.
Not insight.
Just echoes of fear.
And so they asked the body — softly:
“Is it true I have to respond right now?”
The body said: no.
The breath lengthened.
“Is it true I have to make them see me differently?”
The body said: no.
The chest eased.
“Is it true that this pain means I’ve failed?”
And this time, the body just cried.
Not from defeat — but from relief.
From the sudden freedom of not having to be right.
Not having to be understood.
Not having to chase the old story again.
They responded the next day.
Not with a defense.
Not with strategy.
Just with honesty.
Simplicity.
“I understand. I feel tender about it all. I’m here if that ever changes.”
No hooks.
No pressure.
No image to protect.
Just truth, spoken from the body — not the head.
And whatever happened next… could happen.
Because for the first time,
they weren’t fighting reality.
They weren’t seeking protection in thought.
They were resting in the only real ground:
what is felt,
what is here,
what is true.
Here is the next story in the arc — a moment of grief. Not the overwhelming kind that knocks a person flat, but the quieter, creeping kind that seeps in unexpectedly. A real-life test of this shift, where the pain is undeniable and thought tries once again to take over… and yet something else gently holds it all.
The Quiet Weight
They hadn’t cried at the time.
Not at the funeral.
Not during the phone calls.
Not when clearing the apartment or cancelling the accounts.
They had been calm. Steady.
Even helpful.
People said, “You’re handling this so well.”
And they nodded, unsure whether it was true.
Grief, they’d been told, came like a storm.
But for them, it came more like fog —
a slow, gray settling over everything.
It wasn’t until two weeks later —
alone in the kitchen, washing a coffee cup —
that the wave came.
No warning. No thought.
Just a sharp contraction in the chest and a sound escaping the throat before they knew what it was.
A single sob.
Then another.
And then came the thoughts:
“You should have visited more.”
“Why didn’t you say what you meant when you had the chance?”
“It’s too late now.”
They could feel it happening:
the mind building its case for guilt.
It was so familiar.
So convincing.
But something in them — not stronger, not louder, but deeper — remembered:
These are thoughts.
Not judgments. Not orders.
Just thoughts.
They didn’t push them away.
They didn’t try to replace them with better ones.
They simply let the thoughts pass through like gusts of cold wind —
while staying close to the body.
The ache in the throat.
The trembling hands.
The dull weight in the belly.
They placed a palm over the heart — not as a technique, just instinct.
And asked:
“What do you need right now?”
No words came.
Only warmth.
Only breath.
Only this: a moment of being with the pain, not as a problem,
but as a kind of holy visitor.
Grief wasn’t a mistake.
It wasn’t a sign of failure.
It didn’t need fixing.
It was love — in disguise.
And it wanted to be felt.
So they wept.
Not performatively. Not to release anything.
Just because that’s what was true.
They didn’t need a reason.
They didn’t need a name for the feeling.
They didn’t need the mind to explain it.
The story had paused.
And all that remained was this human heart,
alive and breaking open
in the middle of a quiet kitchen.
Later, a thought passed through:
“Maybe this is what healing looks like.”
But they didn’t hold onto it.
They just noted the thought —
and let it go, like all the rest.
They didn’t need to name this moment.
They only needed to live it.
And they did.
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