The Ancestors Still Speak đȘ¶
"We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children." â Native American Proverb
I spent years
tuning out the sound of my own name,
too busy pretending
the mirror was a stranger,
too proud to admit
the emptiness felt earned.
I thought wisdom
was something you hunted down,
until the night
I heard it,
not in books,
not in voices I chased,
but in the pause
between my own heartbeats.
What we need
was never lost.
We just forgot
where to look.
We act like we invented wisdom.
Like self-help began with bestsellers and TED Talks.
Like healing is a modern phenomenon packaged in productivity tips and nervous system hacks.
But long before any of that, people sat in circles.
They watched the sky.
They tracked the moon.
They listened to trees, to silence, to dreams.
And they remembered what we keep trying to Google.
âListen deeply, the ancestors speak clearly to those who are willing to remember.â
That suffering isnât always something to fix.
That grief is a portal.
That pain, when held properly, doesnât destroy you, it remakes you.
The ancestors didnât just survive.
They saw.
They named.
They passed down fire, yes⊠but also metaphor.
And here we are. Drenched in information. Starving for meaning.
The noise is endless.
The scroll never ends.
And yet, the moment you go stillâŠ
The moment you put your ear to the earth, or your journal, or your own chestâŠ
Youâll hear it.
Not a scream.
Not a riddle.
Truth.
But only if youâre ready to stop being entertained long enough to remember.
These small notes arrive quietly,
like morning light through a cracked window.
No noise. Just truth.
đ Subscribe here to keep receiving them.
Hereâs your prompt:
âWhat inner knowing have I ignored because it didnât sound modern enough?â
Write it down.
Even if it feels weird.
Even if it sounds like something your great-grandmother wouldâve said.
Then ask:
âWhat if that voice wasnât outdated, just inconvenient for my distractions?â
Trust that the wisdom didnât disappear.
You just tuned it out.
You are not the first to feel lost.
Or tired.
Or shattered.
But you are the first in your line who may have the chance to name it. To heal it. To break the silence that broke those before you.
So sit still.
Not to be productive.
But to remember.
Because the ancestors never stopped speaking.
We just stopped listening.
Have you ever had a moment where something ancient felt familiar?
Maybe it was a ritual you didnât know you needed.
A dream that didnât make sense but felt true.
A sudden instinct to sit with something, instead of solve it.
If youâve felt it, write it. Share it.
Letâs remind each other that old wisdom is still alive and we carry it forward together.
If youâre here, youâre part of something real, something that holds space for healing without the need to perform. I donât take that lightly.
If this space feels like home.
If it holds your ache, your becoming, your breath.
Consider becoming a paid subscriber, not out of obligation, but as a gesture of shared reverence for this work.
And if a paid subscription isnât right for you, or if you simply want to support in other ways, here are a few small gestures that carry big meaning:
â [Buy me a coffee âïž]
â [Pick up a book đ]
â [Grab some merch đ]
However you choose to support, whether by sharing, buying a coffee, or simply showing up⊠thank you. Truly.
If you think these gentle words cut deep, wait until you read Shadow Thoughts. Thatâs where I let the truth bleed without cleaning it up for anyone.
