To the One Who Thinks Wanting More Makes Them Selfish

Dear friend,

There’s a particular ache that comes from holding back a desire so long you start to call it a flaw.

You dress it in discipline. Drape it in gratitude. Tuck it behind your teeth like it’s shameful to speak aloud.

You tell yourself other people have it worse. That you should be grateful. That the hungriest thing inside you is a threat to your goodness.

And I want to ask you—who taught you that your longing was dangerous?

Who taught you that craving more made you less?

We live in a world that tells you you’re selfish for wanting your life to feel like yours.

That ambition is arrogance. That wanting more time, more space, more tenderness, more truth—makes you somehow ungrateful for all you have.

You learn to survive by asking for less.

You become the person who bites their tongue, who cuts yourself down to be digestible, who sacrifices again and again and calls it emotional maturity.

Yet here's the thing: Desire is not a weakness.
It’s not a failure of character. It’s not something to tuck into the corner of your soul and never let out to play.

It’s a flame. A compass. A heartbeat.

The opposite of arrogance isn’t martyrdom.

It’s worthiness that no longer needs to scream to be seen.

You can be generous and still deserving.

You can be wildly grateful and still aching for more.

You can be humble and still holy in your hunger.

And if we call our own longing dangerous, we send the same message to all those currently clawing their way toward freedom.

If we truly want to dismantle oppression, if we truly want to liberate all those who’ve been silenced, we must stop pretending that desire is shameful.

We must believe that wanting more is holy.

Because every time we demonize our longing, we reinforce the lie that only some people deserve to have needs. We unconsciously uphold the systems we say we want to break.

This isn’t just personal healing.
It’s collective reclamation.

The universe is not on a budget. Your soul is not some spoiled child. And the more you root in your worth, the less you’ll fear the power of your asking.

Here’s what I know to be true:
The most beautiful kind of wanting comes not from emptiness—but from aliveness.

So ask.

Ask with your eyes. Ask with your spine.
Ask with the way you let yourself rest at night.
Ask with how you show up to your life in full color.

Ask even if your voice shakes. Ask from within your trembling body. Even if the old stories shout louder.
Even if part of you still thinks you should stay quiet.

Ask because your wanting is not wrong.

It’s the doorway. Ask again.

And let the rest of Leo season crown you with the kind of courage that doesn’t shrink for anyone.

Because wanting more doesn’t make you selfish.

It makes you whole.
It makes you awake.
It makes you real.

From my heart to yours,

Practice Postscript:

Where the letter stops being read—and starts being lived.

Before you close this page, take a breath that goes all the way down through your body.

Let your belly soften. Let your ribs expand.

Now—ask your body, not your mind:

• What do I really want that I’ve been pretending I don’t?

• Where in my life am I starving while calling it selflessness?

• Who else might I unintentionally be silencing if I keep calling desire dangerous?

• What if the more I crave is not indulgent—but divine?

Let your responses come without apology. Then say, aloud if you dare:

I want _______. And I no longer need to earn it.

Say it like a vow. Say it like a spell. Say it like a prayer. Say it like the releasing the roar we both know you've been holding in your throat for years.

Because this isn’t about greed.

It’s about finally letting your life fit the shape of your spirit.