Monologue #1: The Death of Need

A reflective series on the inner reckonings we rarely speak aloud.

In becoming, there’s an understanding that you are healing—
that you are evolving.
But today, let’s talk about the version of you that had to die
so that you could live.

Not the parts that softened.
Not the wounds that closed.
But the part of you that had to be buried
so you could finally breathe the air
that would carry you into something next—
something more,
something unknown.

For me,
it was my identity as the one who is needed.

I searched my mind,
walked down its long hallway—
through open doors,
and doors shut so tightly I could still hear them echo.
I walked through them all
to find the root of that belief:
That I am only as worthy
as the help I give.

That my purpose,
my place,
my very birthright
was to be needed.

I sat quietly in the center of my soul
and asked both my mind and my heart:
Is the thread between you—
this thread called need—
still vital?
Or can it be severed and buried?

It was not a beautiful funeral.
It was a reluctant burial.
And in the moment of her death,
I released her
in sweet sorrow
and reverent love.

An enigma, wrapped in paradox:
Because she, herself,
was no longer needed.

She lived in ignorant bliss,
fed by beautiful lies
that pacified her
for years
that became decades.

Until one day,
she turned around
and saw clearly:

Being needed
was never love.
And being needed
would never make her enough.

Other parts of me are healing.
But need had to die.

The vines that grew around her
suffocated her.
Blinded her.
Twisted her essence.

And even when I tried
to untangle her—
she was already gone.

After death,
there was no rebirth.
Only the ghost of memory.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai