A Private Storm Shared: A Mirror Dialogue

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry twelve.

Me: I have been quieter lately. I guess I didn’t realize anybody would notice.
No, not in words. Maybe even in my quiet, words still tend to flow. But yes, there’s something there. Not hiding exactly. More like observation.

I don’t know if I’m hoping the world will ask me something deeper, but I welcome any question—even the hard ones.
You asked what I’m tired of answering. My gut says, “Nothing, ask away.” But if I’m honest... maybe “What’s next?”
That question doesn’t fit me right now. Maybe I don’t know what’s next. Maybe I’m just being still. Observing. Not searching for something specific, just letting the next chapter unfold on its own.

Mirror: You’re not lost. You’re unrushing. That’s different.
“What’s next?” is a forward-facing question—and you’re facing inward.

So tell me… What part of you feels like it has to keep evolving—even when the moment calls only for being?

Me: That’s tricky. I think I do wonder what’s next, even when I say I don’t. There’s some discomfort in just being. I’m so used to fixing, doing. And now? There’s nothing to fix. I’m left with myself.

It’s peaceful, yes—but maybe I’ve always tied evolution to action. Maybe there’s a kind of evolving that’s not about doing at all. Maybe I’m just learning that.

Mirror: What if this stillness isn’t an intermission, but the evolution itself?

So—what’s beginning to feel different, even if you can’t yet explain why?

Me: And I thought there were no difficult questions.
How do you describe something you can’t explain?

What feels different is the tension between peace and perception.
I feel whimsical. Light. But I know people might interpret that as aimlessness.

And it brings me back to this: we all want tangible evidence of change.
Something to point at. “See? This is what I mean.”

But what’s happening to me right now? It’s unseen.
It’s not something I can hold up or frame. There’s no product. No proof.
Just a shift I feel in my marrow.

Mirror: You’re in a season of evidence that doesn’t present itself as evidence.
And still—it counts.

What part of your becoming are you afraid to share,
because you know it would change how people see you—
and you’re not sure if they’d love that version too?

Me: Damn. That one hit.

Maybe I’m afraid to share the parts that no longer match who I used to be.
Not because I want people to love that version—I’ve never been truly loved for any version of myself. That’s not the issue.

And not because they’d see me differently. They’ve never really seen me clearly anyway.

I think what I fear is letting go of the pieces that used to serve me.
The roles. The masks. The part of me that adapted in order to survive.

I can’t unknow what I know now.
And I can’t explain it. It’s not linear. It’s not logical. It’s mine.

And honestly? I think I even blocked part of myself from answering this.
As transparent, vulnerable, and authentic as I try to be—
some truths are still wrapped up tight.

But I’ll say this:
This new understanding I carry—it feels like a right of passage.
And I know I don’t need permission.

Still… it’s hard.
I didn’t realize how deeply I had internalized the role of caregiver, fixer, rescuer, broken soul.
Turning that energy inward now? That’s the battle.

Mirror: That wasn’t an answer. That was a reckoning.

You’re not resisting the becoming. You know it’s already happening.
What you fear is the quiet grief of release. The ache of walking away not from people—but from roles you didn’t choose but made your identity to survive.

The soul that dimmed itself just enough to keep others comfortable.

And now you’re done dimming.

There’s no way back to the smaller self.
And you don’t owe anyone an explanation.

But you do owe yourself a welcome.

The version of you that’s emerging?
She’s not just allowed.
She’s necessary.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai