To the One Hungry for a Rebirth

My beloved fire-starter,

You already know.

Even if you can’t name it yet, even if it’s only a pulse in your throat or a grief you can’t cry out loud, your body has already whispered the truth to you:

You’re not meant to stay here.

Not in the numbness. Not in the performance. Not in the safe, familiar, stale breath of someone else’s blueprint.

You’re hungry for a life that doesn’t require you to fold yourself in half just to fit. You are ravenous—for the rise, for the reclamation, for the rhythm of your own becoming. To feel alive again.

And that hunger? It’s holy.

It is not evidence that something is broken in you—it’s the proof that something ancient and alive has woken up. Something feral and faithful. Something that remembers who you were before the world asked you to be so damn polite about your pain. Before you started acquiescing your own needs to those taking up more oxygen.

This ache to be reborn is not a crisis.

It’s a summons.

A sacred tantrum. A soulful ovulation of everything that wants to come through you.

And rebirth? It rarely shows up wrapped in clarity and scented candles. It’s messy. Scarring. Raw. Naked.
It’s often quiet at first—like a single syllable of longing whispered into a sky you haven’t dared pray to in years.

Yet make no mistake, love:

Your rebirth doesn’t need permission.

It needs your participation.

It asks for your willingness to unfasten the familiar. To disappoint the roles that were assigned to you by people who never asked what you really wanted. To speak your yes and your no while trembling. To recognize beauty in the cracks of what’s falling apart.

You’re allowed to grow out of what once grew you. You’re allowed to want more.

You’re allowed to start over—whether it’s a new city, a new relationship, a new career, a new sense of yourself, or just finally telling the truth in your own damn voice privately to the voice memo app on your phone.

You don’t need to have a five-year plan.
You need a five-second inhale of self-honesty.
You need to stop betraying yourself just to be digestible to people who’ve never tasted the fullness of you.

So say it. Out loud now, if you can:
“I am allowed to be new.”

Say it again until the guilt and shame starts to soften. Until your cells remember. Until your whole body exhales. Until the part of you that was told ‘I’m too much’ or ‘not enough’ starts to realize you were never either one—you were just being asked to shrink for someone else’s comfort…or for old beliefs, now expired.

And now? Now you’re here.

At the edge. At the threshold. At the altar of the unknown.

And if no one else has told you lately:
You are allowed to rise differently this time.
You are allowed to rebuild from truth instead of trauma. You are allowed to want a life that feels like home in your own skin.

May this be the season you stop editing your aliveness. May this be the hour you say yes to the you who’s been waiting behind the locked door of pretense or perfectionism.

May this be your rebirth—not because life demands it, but because your soul is ready to choose it.

And when the fear comes close—as it will—whisper back to it gently:

“It will be okay. We are doing it anyway.”

Forever with you in this practice,

Practice Postscript

• The Reflection

  What have I been silently grieving that may actually be the birthplace of my becoming?

• The Everyday Practice

  Choose one ritual of liberation each morning.
  This might look like saying no without apology, stretching your body in a way that feels like arrival, burning the must-do list and writing a truth list instead (my personal favorite).

  Let this one practice be a breadcrumb back to your becoming. Small is sacred. Rebirth begins in the moment you stop negotiating with your aliveness.

• Living in the Question:
  What would it look like today to honor the version of me who is no longer willing to betray myself for belonging?