Meditation Defiance

"You know… you should really have a meditative practice"… I cringe every time I hear this advice. I know it's coming from a heartfelt place, but ever since I was a child, I've been notoriously hyper.

I'm a deeply spiritual person, but I can honestly say meditation is NOT the tool that led me to my spirit work.

In fact, sitting still drums up difficult, uncomfortable, and downright traumatizing sensations in my body. If I'm sitting still, it means I'm frozen.
It means I'm inundated with emotional or sensory overwhelm.
It means I'm internally panicking, and even though I am cool, calm, and collected on the outside, all of the mini-me’s are running around in my brain and body, bumping into walls.

The very ideas of meditation and mindfulness leave me rolling my eyes. I think of monks on mountains with closed eyes and straight backs, minds flowing in the ether.... man that sounds boring!

I had to dig deep into my resistance. Why was I so defiant about meditation?! “Everyone” seems to love it except me! Why am I ever the outcast and always the weirdo who can’t simply DO the thing I’m “supposed” to do?

When I sat with my why, I realized how quickly discomfort rises to my chest. Panic spreads through my system, I don’t want to sit still because I was forced to spend most of my childhood there—dissociated and disconnected. Meditation feels like pressure to me, pressure to do something and be someone I can’t be.

Honestly, I've done my time as a monk in previous variations of me…. and I feel complete with it.

However I understand the principle of meditation, as in making room in the mind- body space is important. I just don’t believe the only way to achieve that is through stillness.

I crave movement, art, life. I crave a spiritual practice as deep and poetic as me. I desire sensory input (and output!), which helps inspire me to experience the world in new ways.

Neatly folded legs and arms work for some people, and I trust they are doing the right thing for themselves. But as a traumatized neurodivergent person, I am tired of fighting the natural order of my own body, which is driven by dynamic, ethereal movement.

I meditate when I write.
I meditate when I run.
I meditate in the shower
or when I'm on the floor, stretching into my muscles.
I meditate when I cook.
I meditate doing laundry,
I meditate during archery,
or when I am listening to music in my backyard under the afternoon sun.

And whenever someone tells me, "This isn't real meditation," it compels me further into these untraditional spiritual modalities.

There is no right or wrong way to meditate. There is no one true path to "enlightenment" (I'd argue enlightenment is bullshit anyway, but that seems like a post for another day).

There is only the intuitive movement of my own human experience. And if I want to spend it meditating through movement, I ned to give myself permission to do just that.

So if you are like me, know you are NOT alone. I, too, require movement on my spiritual path. My journey is full of life, dance, art, and poetry. In fact, my best meditative sessions happen when I tell my own brain to shut the fuck up and let my pen lead the way.

It doesn't have to make sense.
That's the point.
It doesn't have to be quiet
because neither is your spirit!

Stillness is not necessary medicine for spiritual growth… and spiritual growth is NOT limited to stillness.

So find your meditation through movement and release your expectations of perfection. This is your damn journey, and you are allowed to navigate the spirit map in a way that fits your life!

~ Robin Korejko

Marital Skeletons

You know, there is so much more to love letters than just putting pen to paper. But in order to understand the evolution of love letters, we must first uncover the way they shaped our relationships.

Or at least, how they shaped the trajectory of my relationship with my husband.

My husband and I wrote love letters to each other for DECADES!

As we got older, I felt we lost touch with the art which was the foundation of our relationship. We stopped writing. Maybe it was because we lived together. Maybe we had evolved, maybe letters were just a game for young lovers. And we had grown beyond that….. Except, I couldn’t help but notice, when the poems, the letters, and the art of our togetherness faded, there was disconnect between us.

“Adulthood” got in the way of our world. Mangled green vines grew in the garden of our love, strangling the rosebuds which once bloomed inside.

“I felt we lost touch with the art which was the foundation of our relationship. We stopped writing. Maybe it was because we lived together. Maybe we had evolved, maybe letters were just a game for young lovers. And we had grown beyond that….. Except, I couldn’t help but notice, when the poems, the letters, and the art of our togetherness faded, there was disconnect between us.”

We stopped communicating entirely, stopped listening, stopped sending and receiving. We just….. stopped.
Exhaustion, fatigue, burnout, and stress were at the core of our relationship. So even when we DID finally have time to connect it was met with sleepy eyes and broken thoughts of hope. Our date nights were short and sweet because we were counting down the moments to bed.

What once was a vibrant field of colorful blooming pages, each filled with an eternity of love songs and romantic proclamations, dwindled into hallmark cards and gift boxes of empty gestures marked by bold circled calendar days.

Nothing really meant anything. I felt sad, and tired…. and lonely. Really f*cking lonely.

I figured it was over between us. What could we possibly do to resurrect this love? How do you pump life back into a balloon with a hole in it? How do you rake out the weeds when they’ve choked out the roses?

For whatever reason - be it exhaustion or unwellness - I downloaded Tik Tok in the Spring of 2020. I decided to film us a little each day.
I thought to myself, if I could (re)-capture the missing pieces, if I could expose the vines, the weeds, and expose the truth, I’d be able to show him proof that something was missing between us.

Then he’d see… he’d have to see how ‘bad’ things had gotten.

Every day I’d record one small moment. A simple interaction with each other. From cooking to house hold chores, or a conversation with our children.

For 5 years, over and over I’d hit record…. except it switched from filming him to “catch” us in our spiral… to filming his reactions. His silliness… and his ‘nonsense’. I filmed his smile, and his [SAD] attempts to flirt. I filmed his sweet gestures, and even the grumpy ones. And mine too!

Red button, after red button, after red button …. I kept recording. And found at the heart of our suffering were two people who just really wanted to be together. Two people who WANTED to work it out. Two people who really still loved the HELL out of each other, and would do ANYTHING to support each other.

I originally did this ‘experiment’ to expose the preverbal ‘leak’ in the boat. Except, what I discovered through this experience was how much I fucking MISSED him. That really the soul of my sadness was the deep grief of how our love story evolved into something new and beautiful. And that our love hadn’t actually disappeared at all. It was just being expressed an entirely new way. Ultimately, it took 5 years of adventures, storytelling, and vulnerability to see it all in front of me. Through this tapestry of videos, I was able to reflect on my marriage in a way I never thought to do because I was so consumed with the belief my marriage was already dead.

“I was so consumed with the belief my marriage was already dead”

Somewhere along the way, my Tik Tok account became a living love letter to my husband. A tapestry of our relationship, a testimony to my deep and profound love for him, and my renewed source of commitment to our family.

And I found his love in return.

Right where I never expected to find it, in the closet with the Skelton lovers.

Now I can see why those videos were the missing piece of our marriage. Not because it excavated what was lost, but because they found what love had buried, a story that never truly really left us wrapped in HUNDREDS of love filmed letters.

Sometimes you’ve got to unEarth the skeletons in order to let the roses bloom again.

Sealed in Fire & Fate,
Robin

If you’re interested in celebrating Valentines Day with us, subscribe to my channel for just $15 a month or register a one time fee of $35 for the zoom link access to our Love Letter and Poetry Workshop.

Absent Mind, Present Soul

When I was a kid I forgot EVERYTHING...
books, homework, uniforms, chores, my own name…
I learned quickly it was an undesirable trait
To forget …

Shame would...
Flood my cheek while terror ripped through my chest.
I didn’t want to be forgetful,
But I didn’t know how to remember.

How was it so easy for people to remember?
There’s so much information to hold!
It became evident, the state of my memory, the way my brain functioned…

I was broken somehow.

The truth is my head is and has always been busy....
With how to process proper social nuances,
With daydreaming and dynamic problem solving
With class information
…And teachers voices
…And coaches commands
…And friends needs
…And family secrets
And rumors,
And heart ache…
And more....

My way of processing these events was never welcome.
There was no room for forgiveness for the invisible assault of an absent mind.
It was so much for me, all the time..

But somehow it was more disruptive to the people around me.

So many voices
So many people
So many feelings
So many discomforts
My brain was nearly always full

And no one seemed to noticed,
the ways it took me out.

The only thing they noticed
Was the way it inconvenienced them.

I’d forget, seemingly basic things.

I lived in fear of the moments my brain would “get me into trouble”
Fearful to see authoritative figures from home to my classroom,
hated to be reminded
My brain works differently than everyone else’s..

Then I’d obsess over my worries,
Were others just better at remembering?
Did they feel burdened like I do?
Why does it seem so much easier for others?
I bullied myself over my scrambled brain.

I was wise, but not smart.

I was trying,
But not hard enough.

My senses and emotions were full of rich information, which went unrecognized,
I was intelligent in a way that didn’t show up in the places that “counted”.

It took me years to embrace my brain as a “gift”,
And trust the way I process information was just right for me,
to convince myself my mind was beautiful.

There was no test score could measure the amount of compassion in my heart,
No obvious value in my abilities.
No proof what I carried in me was worthy of being expressed.

So I had to believe on my own,

I had to dig in deep and remind myself my inner truth was outer beauty too ,
That how I communicated the thoughts and ideas inside of me was not only “okay” but it was interesting and exciting.

…….

Your mind is extraordinary.
What you think about,
the WAY you think about things is no accident.
You’re a journeyman who desires to learn more than what sits on the surface.
You dive into the depths of your own inner self in order to heal. And that isn’t just okay it’s fucking brilliant.

So be forgetful because that means you’re remembering your humanity.

Be “flighty” because it means you’re unEarthing worldly treasures.

Be a drifter,

a wanderer,

a voyager,

An impulsive risk taker ..

your physical body may trip over the stars scattered in the space between your bed and the dresser,
but that is because your mind is gracefully dancing through the darkness in order to influence big changes in your life.

Give yourself permission to be “absent minded” because it means you are present in your soul.
Show the world there is more than one way to think.

Dare to be a dreamer.

You and your magical mind are a gift.

I love you,
Robin

The Room with a Thousand Eyes

Blonde tendrils fall into my face as I write feverishly in a palm sized pink diary with a gold heart lock. Raspberry lips toss my tongue and chin back as the hairs wave away from the blue lined pages.

‘Dear Diary, Today was the worst!’

I write feverishly, frantically, ferociously on the page. I push so hard my bicep trembles under the weight of my pen. All of the inner turmoil bubbles to the surface. I am ready to tell all. However, I pause, eyes closed to ensure the silence and reassure myself that I am in fact alone.

I do not feel like I am alone…

My gut flares in response.

It is me and my diary in the quiet of my blue bedroom. My eyelids pressed together so hard my head hurts yet somehow I am being watched in a room with a thousand eyes.

Goose- bumps and bumble on my forearms as my brows furrow from the rage of todays personal news. Information I intended to spill out on the pages in front of me.

“I want to leave this place.” It’s not a simple thing to write or to feel, but it’s true enough for me.

My nose twitches in an effort to restrain the drip drops of sadness pouring from my face.“I hate it here” the pen point end digs so hard into the page it etches black ink into the unwritten pages underneath. A phantom chin rests on my shoulder and I jump out of my skin burning my writing hand on the light bulb above the sprawled pages.

“WHO IS THERE!” I say instinctively, covering the 2 sentences laying openly on the page below.

Silence, again. A deceptive silence. Betrayal thickens the field around me. I don’t know how the eyes always know when I am writing. You see, every time I sit to write, someone somehow steals my words. I write, and the pages disappear from the book, like invisible ink or torn pages with no seam.

Forces slip into my room when it is unattended, and their ghostly fingers morph into keys to unlock my secrets. Even when I think it’s safe to share my most personal thoughts .. Even when I safely tuck the words in scrolls and bind them by lock and key, an evil  intruder breaks the chain.

Each time I start to write, I am exposed.

I don’t understand why MY words, my writings, MY experiences are open to such scrutiny! Something as simple as my written out feelings are flipped and turned on their head leaked out into global air. Browbeaten by my own hand, as poems once sincere are slipped into sinister snake- like mouths. Words which once whispered my hearts deepest plea, are now unrecognizable letters dangling in the air rearranged to cause damage and harm in my name.

I don’t know how it happens, but it always does. The words are swallowed by snake mouths who spit out the venomous stories throughout the land.

My desperate need to release my heart of all the heavy things it holds, whipped into an unfamiliar frenzy and used against me to justify my punishment.
Because how dare I think those things?
How dare I speak those things?
How dare I FEEL those things?

And once the diary is delivered by the eyes to The Keeper, I am banished to the room with a thousand eyes.

I am horrified every time my writing is siphoned from safe places and spit back out to the world without my permission.
I am terrified there is no safe space to feel, to be, and to know without being disciplined back into vapid,  robotic order.
I am mortified to recognize the infinite cycle that keeps me frozen at blank diary pages, both wanting nothing more to write and yet being terrified to be seen.

My right thumb runs a softened pad over the burn. Red like my cheeks full of shame and sorrow. Burnt like my soul by the bottomless wound of ancient treason.
How long has it been since I attempted to write my way home?
How many lifetimes have I spent trying to get the words out of me?
How long have I been trapped in the room of a thousand eyes?
Is there any way to release me of this fate?

Time and time again, my truth, uprooted from prying eyes and sold to the highest bidder.
Will I ever be safe to get the words out of me?
Will I finally explode if I continue to hold them in?
What’s a girl with a pink diary, a pen, and an endless ocean of feeling to do?

It is not yet safe, to write, to feel, to know, and to heal.
It is not safe to withhold these things either.

They - the eyes - they know. They notify the planetary authorities and sell my soul (out) time and time again.

I can see their presence on the page, the paper color tinted from bright white to a hazy yellow to match their impure intention.

I see it. Thumbprints of persistent ghosts who have nothing better to do than pry open the bolt and swallow the key.

The words, inside of me,  they eat me alive… and I need to get them out.
Or I’ll forget what they are.

The eyes, they know this. and I know when they’ve intruded me. Don’t they see it too? The light, it’s like a film? It’s a lie.
But it seems they’d rather bury me in the caverns with my thoughts than be exposed.

They are the evil ones, not me. But I can not seem to remember that,
If only I could write that down.

I won’t remember that tomorrow… but I can not write it down today.

I rub the scorched hand against my head where I am rolled up inside my own thoughts, and the eyes press into my neck.
I shut the book and toss it against the wall,
“LEAVE ME ALONE!!”

The eyes have won again,
And the words remain buried inside to torment me another day.
But the eyes, they blink around the room.
It is impossible to be invisible and witnessed at the same time.

As I sit looking in on the memory of a thousand eyes, I embrace my inner child who is desperate to be invisible.
She has been through so much. Her words were minced and used against her. It’s no wonder writing feels like such a cruel place.
I honor her, in all she endured.
I honor her love of writing is also a terrible place to be.
There are people who were eager to use her world against her to keep her in line.
She is me and I am her and together we embrace this maddening truth hidden in the room with a thousand eyes.

I honor the version of her that hides away
I honor the version of her that is longing to be seen.
I honor the opposite of truths that can exist at one time.

I am the eyes, I am the child, I am the light, I am the way in, I am the way out.

It’s safe now my love, come out and write.

Fantastical NeuroMystical

You may be sitting here reading this wondering, what exactly is NeuroMystical? And how do I know if I am one?

Maybe you’re someone who has always known, or someone who has been drawn toward metaphysical and paranormal since you were a child.

Perhaps you have always expressed an interest in traveling to specific places on Earth that are known to hold energy and power.

OR maybe you’re entirely turned off by the idea and you’ve stumbled upon this post, calling you home to parts of you, you have yet to uncover!

For me, this was a relentless pursuit from the mystical world. Breadcrumbs and symbols strewn about my environment, like diamonds in a coal mine. I tried to run, I tried to hide, and like a child I closed my eyes tight so I could not see what was right in front of me.

When I awakened, I realized I was more confused than anything. I identified with the principals of witchiness, however I didn’t necessarily feel connected to Salem witch trials or Hocus Pocus witches for that matter. I do however, remember vividly being tortured for being “different”. I had visions of horses pulling carts full of my sacred artifacts away, and flames that scorched my toes as I lifted my head to the sky. I could see myself healing others with a spellbook, and dancing under the moon with my coven. But the images were often frightening. And I’d abandon myself over again for fear that what killed me in lifetimes before would take me out once again in this lifetime.

Fore me, mysticism exists when I talk to the trees, or lean my head into the wind. It’s the ache in my knee just before a monstrous rain storm, or the lightning strike in my head when the barometric pressure in the air rises. My magic lives in my bones, in my veins, and in my skin. It interacts with the world and the people around me. It is my way of engaging in an everchanging world. 

So how was I to tap into this knowledge without spiraling into madness? How could I remember AND forget? How could I be lost and found while figuring out how to navigate my own fleeting thoughts? For me, the answer lived in writing.

For years, writing was the ONLY place I felt safe to explore the edges of my story. I’d pull a book from a locked compartment, sit alone, and write until my head was empty and my paper was full. I’d write all of the dreams, thoughts, and visions that came to my mind. I’d write angry, sad, and indifferent. I’d write my breakthrough’s and I’d write my celebrations. I’d write what I’d remember, and what I had forgotten. Writing was the gateway, it was the portal in and out of these realms. It was the medicine I needed at a time when I could barely talk about what I had known I survived across countless lifetimes. 

I spent years doing this. Over and over. Every single day until I felt complete. And now, I bring this alchemical process of mysticism to you.

My spells are prayers I lift to the divine, and my potions made up of the tea and alchemy that nurtures my spirit. My altar is made of intentions and oracle cards and my familiar speaks to me in the night. When I became attuned to my inner voice, my outer worlds revealed their secrets. And nature is the thread that connects the magic to my fingertips. When I embrace the voice of my mysticim, I feel more at peace with who I am on the inside. I feel alive once again.

 The problem was, my fear of how that presented on the outside. The more I leaned into this craft, the more disconnect I felt from the world around me. Because it always rooted back to the same truth; this connection had killed me once before. 

I had been burned, tortured, and abused for just being who I was… would it happen again this lifetime? Was it safe to share all of the parts of me with the world? Or would I be hunted once more for “being different” in a world hell bent on imposing order. Chaos is seen as the enemy, and witches are the art of that which is born through chaos. 

So, how in the world would I be able to live in my authentic self when I was so terrifed to allow people to see me this way? 

The truth is, the answer isn’t as simple as “deciding” to not care. Our coping mechanisms have a way of safegaurding against what has traumatized us in the past, and our nervous system is an intellegence designed to respond to stress. It matters not whether that trauma is from 10 years ago, or 1,000. The body remembers. Our ancestors pass down their powers and their panic. Therefore, it is in our cells to recognize what is dangerous to US and does a fantastic job of helping us survive impossible things. 

As a witch, and neurodivergent, you too have survived impossible things.

Which leaves us at the edge of a new world, how DO you tap into your power safely while understanding your bodies deep desire to run? 

If you were drawn to this post, it means the voice of your inner mystic is ready to emerge, or evolve. It means you are here for a reason. And while you explore the bounds of this voice we will commit to keeping each other SAFE in the process. It means there IS access to safety and we will empower that into existence. You are meant to thrive as a NeuroMystical human. 

You are safe here, let your words touch light. Let the torch of your voice be a beacon for your body to follow. Let your story sing out from your belly and your womb. Let what you have hidden become seen. You are worthy of stepping into your mystical power. And it begins here, now with you. I believe in you. 

Whether you are a practicing NeuroMystic or interested in exploring the magical worlds that live within you, your mystical spirit calls to you now. It is no accident you are here. I can’t wait to see all of the magical things you do.

Love ~ Robin

Raising a Neurodivergent is not for the Faint of Heart

I write this knowing it may be unfavorable

I write this from a position of privilege

I write this with the intention to connect with those of us silently feeling guilty...

For being the mom that sometimes feels the burden of responsibility raising a neurodivergent child.

Recently my child has been more needy than usual. His anxiety has shifted, his worries flared... but not the way when he was a toddler through tantrums, and not the way he was as a 6 year old through tears and night terrors.

But as a 9 year old child. As a kid who is trying to figure out he is in an overwhelming world, as a person with a unique set of ideas, as a boy testing the bounds of masculinity, as a sensitive warrior attempting to assert his authority over his authenticity in an unforgiving world.

He needs me. And I love that because I am so blessed to hold him, to teach him, to nurture him. But he needs me and sometimes it tests the range of my capacity. He needs me to be his center. He needs me to safely explore the vastness of the unknown. He needs me while he defines his self worth and learns what it is to be needed.

And as a 9 year old, he’s quickly understanding the depth of manipulation, deceit and vulnerability.

He needs me, he is scared ... and so am I.
Not scared of him or his “behaviors”, or his differently wired brain…
I am terrified of who I am when my resources are deplete.
I am afraid that I am not mother enough to guide him into the profound nature of his luminous self.

Because sometimes I need me [too]. I need to occupy my own space. His brothers need me just as much as he does. It doesn’t always feel like there is room for everyone. Which leaves me spinning in circles inside myself.

My attention draws back to my little and I watch as he fidgets uncomfortably in his seat while covering his face with a grey weighted blanket. His security, reconfiguring as his spirit figures out where it falls into space. It’s in these moments I remember, he thinks he’s alone navigating the enormity of his universe. And no matter how many times I hug him, no matter how often I repeat I love you, no matter if I’m a room a way checking in every 4 minutes to assure him of his safety.. it doesn’t seem to be enough. He deserves to know he is enough.

And I’m sorry because I’m tired, and sometimes I snap. “They” say I shouldn’t have moments like this. There is an expectation of mothers to hold their tongue and bury their frustrations. But I snap, I do, and I hate myself for it. Guilt mixes with exhaustion a lot these days. The lines of motherhood blur with my ever fading sensibility. How can I guide my child and let him land safely on the other side? How do I keep my own edges from fraying until I am merely strips of ribbon lying upon the dusty floor? Do other parents feel this way? Are their kids experiencing this desperate yearning? For connection? For understanding? Are their children so fearful they won’t let them leave their sides?

I guess a tiny part of me believed at 9 my child would be bold enough to explore the edges of his world [mostly] on his own. Yet here we are with fear dripping from his dampened brow. It feels like traveling backward. To a time when he was just a tiny tot begging me to shoo the monsters from under his bed. Sometimes I cry and tell myself I’ve gotten it all wrong. That the problem is me and I should have done more.. should have done better… should have been something or someone else entirely. Sometimes I lose my breath simply trying to find the balance of his needs and mine.

And I palm my hands to my eyes.. because these are the days I feel the weight of raising a highly sensitive child. A child I love. A son I want to never worry over his too muchness... and I’m depleted of my resources.

He tugs on my throws his weight in onto my body... and I can’t even breathe.

Here we are. And I am scared I’m failing him.

The responsibility of raising a highly sensitive child is overwhelming.

And the loneliness I feel while sustaining the momentum is crippling.

And the weight on my shoulders is enough to bring me to my knees

Begging for mercy,

For relief,

For someone, ANYONE to see how hard I’m trying.

And maybe even tell me I’m doing ok once and a while.

So for now I’ll sew these worries up tight and hide them in my pillow case where my dreams will find them. I wipe my tears and find a new way forward.

I say I’ll go easier on myself but days like this I’m not so sure.

But I do know I’ll find a way forward, like I always do ... for me, for him, for his brothers ... and for the highly sensitive families everywhere praying for some peace and understanding every once in a while.

Raising a Neurodivergent is not for the faint of heart.

Love
Robin

An Open Letter to Empaths

I always said that if someone had told me when I was a child that it was possible to feel the emotions of others, my whole life would have been different.

Well, for those kids like me who feel the weight of the entire world, I am here to tell you: it is possible.

Not only is it possible, there's an actual name for it: empath. Feeling the emotions of others can sometimes take over an empath's whole life.

As an empath, you'll find that navigating these emotions is a never-ending pursuit of figuring out where you begin and others end, like a snake shedding its skin—wriggling and thrashing until you've finally separated yourself from the people or events around you.

It is possible to be so in tune, so sensitive to the needs of others that your physical body flares up, your heart races, and your gut turns in response to the turmoil in others.

It is possible to feel heartache and sorrow echoing from across the entire world. It is possible to feel your own skin scorched by the fires burning in different lands. It is possible to hear the wails of their spirits bursting from underneath your skin. It is possible to feel yourself heaving in the wreckage and wrapped in the fear that the rain will never come. It is possible to join a rain dance prayer a world away.

It is possible to see and hear these events as if they're happening in the space around you, even when they're a thousand timelines away.

Yes, it is possible. It's not just possible; this is what it is. This is who you are. And I wish I could tell you it goes away, but it doesn't. I wish I could tell you there's a golden utopia of endless joy at the end of a glittering rainbow, but as long as there is pain on this Earth, as long as there are stories to be told, your book of awareness will remain open.

I wish I could tell you there was a cure-all, but truth be told, being an empath ain't easy. You feel the fear, the terror, the cries, and the war. You feel this in you until it comes pouring out of you—in screams, in tears, howls, and fears. You feel it all until you can feel no more. Some days, you feel all of this stronger than others.

You feel the weight of the world, and I am here to tell you, I do too. I know you see the sadness rippling under the smiling cheek of the student next to you at school. I know you pause at the piercing spear ripping through a lion’s heart from across the sea. I know you hear the soundless pleas from children crying in their beds as they fend off monsters in their dreams.

I know you do. I know you're afraid to say it out loud, but I believe you.

I know this because I do too. I know it seems scary, but I am telling you, it's real. Now that you know who and what you are, I should also let you in on a secret: not everyone embraces this philosophy. There are people who will tell you that this isn't a good way to live your life. There are intolerances towards sensitives, and it is truly unfair.

Your empathicness is worth everything.

The ability to feel deeply in this hardened world, is a remarkable testimony to your strength as a person. To be a sensitive soul, in a relentlessly unforgiving world… it's worth everything. Do not let yourself go numb, even though you might want to on your worst days. Together, we will learn how to release these burdens and grow stronger to navigate the roaring ocean of emotions and come out stronger on the other side.

Your sensitivity is real.
Your empathy is real.
The way you experience life is unique and pure.
You are not meant to fly blindly into the night.
You are a vast and courageous spirit filled with adventure and purpose.

You have the ability to tune into the truth of what's going on in those around you, and you won't turn away. You will never grow up to be an adult who gaslights another because it's within your integrity not to. You will not harm others with what you know.

Instead, you are going to help people live into their stories because you feel it with them. You are destined to understand how this works in you so you can release it accordingly. You are meant to create keen discernment skills to distinguish your truth from others'. You are meant to honor another person's experience in life and still live into your own. Because their voice is just as important as your own.

Empaths sometimes lose themselves to the world of others. It doesn’t have to be this way. Furthermore, it is okay to be aware of the pain inside of others, and live your own story at the same time.

You're here to do incredible things with your empathy, not in spite of it. Just remember, it is not your job to hold it all—the suffering of the world. You cannot heal it. I am sorry, but it's true. You are going to learn the difference between what is yours and what is theirs. It is not your job to take the pain away from other people. But you CAN bear compassionate witness. I know you feel responsible, I know you believe it's your fault. I know there are people who have convinced you your empathicness is evil or wrong… But it isn't.

It is okay to love people in their chaos and not embody it as your own. I see you. I see the real you, and empathy is not weakness, nor is it toxic. It is real, and it requires your most compassionate and loving self.

Hold onto this. Hold tight to what makes you an intelligent and beautifully deep-feeling human. Brilliant in this flawless design. Don't turn your back on this. Don't run away. You couldn't even if you tried. But together, we're going to learn how to wield the metaphysical sword of empathic justice.

It's a lot to hold, I know because I carried it in silence for so long. But you, you are putting words to songs that never had lyrics. You are rewriting the story.

Don't let them take this from you.