There is a difference between outer opposition and the enemy that lives quietly inside us. Outer resistance has a face. It has a voice. It announces itself. But the inner enemy is far more subtle. It is hidden. It arrives early. And it often disguises itself as love, protection, or what is considered “appropriate.” For me, this enemy did not arrive as something loud or cruel. It arrived slowly, over time, through a gentle wearing down of a naturally exuberant child.
I was once a child who lived freely inside her own joy. I expressed myself easily—through laughter, curiosity, movement, humor, color, and an unfiltered way of being. That joy was welcomed and delighted in by some of the adults in my life. It was seen as something alive and beautiful. That part of me was my first truth. But not everyone knew how to receive it.
There was another presence, well-meaning, perhaps overwhelmed, perhaps limited by their own nature, who found my joy difficult to manage. Noise felt like too much. Movement felt disruptive. Questions felt inconvenient. Curiosity was treated as something to be trimmed back rather than encouraged.
Slowly, messages were repeated.
“That’s enough now.”
“Not right now.”
“Later, maybe.”
Not harshly. Just consistently.
Over time, those words stopped coming from the outside and began living quietly inside me.
I learned that laughter had a volume limit. That expression required filtering. That curiosity could cross an invisible line. And eventually, I learned something even deeper: that love seemed easier to access when I was quiet.
So I adapted.
I became careful. I learned to wait. I learned to observe before speaking. I learned how not to disturb the room, and in doing so, I became acceptable.
The world responded kindly to this version of me. I was pleasant. I didn’t rock the boat. I didn’t take up too much space. I was included, but always at a distance. Loved, but conditionally.
The wild joy that once moved through me didn’t disappear. It went underground.
Years passed. The pattern set itself. And I lived a life that worked; quietly, safely, numbly content, until one day, something inside me stirred.
What if I wanted to wake up? What if the original joy, the untamed, expressive, laughing child, was not gone, but waiting?
That question marked the beginning of a new chapter. Not a rebellion, but a remembering. A slow rebirth of something long restrained, and yet, this awakening doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens within the context of the world we live in.
There is a heaviness in the world right now. A pressure that discourages authenticity. A force that seems to reward compliance and punish visibility. I feel it, not as paranoia, but as awareness. Caution is learned early and reinforced often.
I know I have a voice. I know I have something meaningful to offer, especially in this time when so many people are longing for fairness, freedom, compassion, and truth. I feel the marriage of the divine feminine and masculine already underway in the hearts of those who are waking up. And still, I hesitate.
Visibility feels precarious. Putting myself on a website feels like standing unshielded in an open field. The old voice whispers: Be careful. Be quiet. Be acceptable.
This is the enemy I face now, not a person, not a system, but a deeply embedded belief that love and safety require restraint.
I’ve always been more comfortable in one-on-one spaces. Intimacy feels natural there. In larger groups, I still listen more than I speak, unsure when my voice belongs. I see now how early conditioning shaped this, how dreaming was safer than interrupting. How looking out the window became a refuge.
My teachers once wrote that I was “not with the class.” They were right. I was elsewhere, imagining, sensing, dreaming. I was never failing. I was just inward.
That inward world has always been rich. And now, it is asking to be shared.
The question I face isn’t whether I am capable, it’s whether I am willing to let the old rules loosen their grip. Is this hesitation weakness? Or is it simply the moment before courage forms?
I don’t yet know what the future will look like. Doors are closing gently, one by one, not in punishment, but in preparation. Something new is forming, even if I can’t name it yet.
I know this much: I can’t force the flower open. I can only tend the soil, listen for the right moment, and trust that when it blooms, it will do so in its own time.
This is not about defeating the enemy; it is about recognizing it, thanking it for how it once kept me safe, and choosing, slowly, carefully, to step beyond it.
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