Truth Hides in the Basement

“The wound is not my fault, but the healing is my responsibility.” — Marianne Williamson

They said I’d feel lighter
once I found the truth.

But the truth didn’t lift.
It pulled.

It dragged me through dust-soaked memory
and sweat-crusted silence.

I sat on the bathroom floor
with my back against the door,
hand shaking around a toothbrush
like it was a weapon
I didn’t know how to use.

No gods.
No guideposts.
Just this quiet
that never stopped echoing my name wrong.

Eventually, I stopped correcting it.

And that’s when the walls
started answering back.

“Your spiritual journey is not about ascending higher; it’s about going deeper.”

Spirituality isn’t sterile. It isn’t peace-scented breathwork or sunlit balconies filled with incense smoke. That’s an aesthetic. Useful, maybe, but only when it’s earned. Most of the time, real healing doesn’t climb. It descends. Into panic. Into the places that pulse when you're alone too long. Into the silence that waits for the mask to slip.

When people say they want to ascend, what they often mean is escape. They want to rise above the shame, the anger, the cravings. But transcendence without descent is just bypassing with a better wardrobe. You can’t skip the sewer and still understand what the clean water costs.

There’s a reason the most honest teachers carry a wound. The ones who’ve gone deep don’t smile when they talk about growth. They get quiet. They remember. And when they speak, it doesn’t sound like instruction. It sounds like permission.

Depth costs. You’ll lose things. Mostly illusions. Sometimes relationships built on pretending you weren’t in pain. But underneath all that, you’ll find something too heavy to carry and too true to drop. That’s where the real practice begins.

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If this hit a nerve, you’re not alone.
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