Monologue #2, part two:The Hill I Die On

Monologue series.

-on trust, storms, and the sacredness of becoming

It’s not the silence that wounds me.
Not the ache of seeing the storm and staying quiet.

What hurts more
is knowing they need the storm.

To become who they are meant to be.
To be forged,
not spared.

It cuts against every instinct in me—
to rescue, to shelter, to intervene.
But I know that journey,
and I know
how necessary it is.

I’ve walked through fire,
been carved by floods and storms.
I’ve seen the shaping.
And it was not in spite of the pain
but because of it
that I found my form.

So I remind myself:
there is a pattern to becoming.
There is a design in the undoing.

And more than that—
there is trust.

A trust that no path is given
without a way through.
That no soul walks alone
if they’re willing to see
what walks beside them.

That’s my anchor.
That’s the truth I cling to.
Not because it’s easy.
But because it’s everything.

If others say,
“That’s the hill I’ll die on,”
then this—
this is mine.

The belief that no pain
is handed to us
without also handing us
the tools,
the grace,
and the unseen arms
to carry it through.

That is the truth I will not abandon.
That is the truth I live and die by.
Not to test fate—
but to honor it.

Because becoming
is not a test.
It’s a return.
To what matters most.

With grace -with ink,

Mai