When Everything Rises at Once

There are some days where everything rises at once.

Not just one memory, not one part, not one emotion—but a chorus of voices, all surfacing at the same time, all asking to be seen. It’s overwhelming. And there’s a fear in that—that if I don’t write them down, I might lose them.

But maybe the fear isn’t about forgetting.
Maybe it’s about trusting that the parts of me that matter will rise again when they’re ready.

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Lately, I’ve been thinking about the girl at college.
What it meant to be seen by her. To desire. To hope. To be misunderstood, and still stay.

Yes, I projected a little.
But we worked through it. And what I feared—losing the ability to be myself—was actually what I found in the letting go.
There was grief, of course. A loss of something imagined.
But underneath it all was something quiet and beautiful:

Even in the face of disconnection, I didn’t abandon myself.

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Then there’s my son.

He’s been pushing me lately. Testing limits. Asking for pancakes that are impossibly thin but not crispy. Moaning about everything.

And I realised—I may have given him too much permission to moan.
Not in a harmful way, but in a way that blurred the lines between expression and entitlement.

So I pointed it out gently, and to my surprise, he said:

“I do kind of enjoy moaning a little bit.”

That’s more self-awareness than most adults have. And it reminded me—he’s not here to be perfect. He’s here to grow.
And so am I.

Maybe modeling strength for him isn’t about being flawless.
Maybe it’s about being firm and kind at the same time.

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Then another part surfaced—the one that panics if I don’t document all of this.
The one that says: “What if you lose this clarity forever?”

But I’ve seen what happens when I trust.
The Jiu-Jitsu reflection took years to come through fully—and it did.
My unconscious didn’t forget.
It waited until I was ready.

So I’m learning to trust the process.
To let parts rise and fall, knowing the truth doesn’t evaporate. It integrates.

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And yes, there’s still a voice—the critical one.
It wants me to go back and re-edit every post. Make it neater, more refined, more “professional.”

But I know what that is.
It’s the part of me that’s still afraid to be seen in process.
Afraid that if it’s not polished, it’s not worthy.

But healing isn’t a finished product.
It’s messy. Unfolding. Honest.
And sometimes, the rawest things are the ones that resonate most.

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So this is what today looked like:

• A boy who’s learning how to moan less.
• A man who’s learning how to hold boundaries without shutting down softness.
• A father who’s trying to be a safe mirror, not a flawless one.
• A human who is still grieving, still desiring, still creating space for all that rises—at once.

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I don’t need to hold every insight forever.
I just need to meet it while it’s here.

And trust that whatever matters…
will rise again.