Column: The Courage to Cross One's Own Rupture

The truth is that many of us are still breaking free from limiting beliefs, and doing so is a kind of death and rebirth, the creation of a mythology in which we can finally accommodate our true size. This means breaking away from people we still love and from habits we learned would keep us safe, but the truth is that none of them have protected us.

Unwavering faith is to deny everything we were conditioned to find, in another time and space, a version of ourselves that is greater than any predetermined destiny, to have the courage to accept our own creative power, but also the impotence of accepting an unchangeable part.

Where did our dreams go? At what moment did we stop believing before we were aware of the impact of our actions? Would we have to sacrifice a purity in our gestures? Gently, we allowed fear to calculate our actions. Today, we live tired of constant caution, in order to avoid another confrontation, in the fatigue of the characters we invented for ourselves.

Afraid of confrontation, we seek comfort without remembering that, in seeking it, we only become a draft of who we really are.

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Our heart lives squeezed into a few minutes between a car ride and the tears that fall in the shower, before we put on the character we've created.

Why do we stop being emotional and cease to feel? Is it merely for the validation of a performative authenticity that doesn't match the magnitude of the sphere that surrounds us?

Wrapped in a shell, we are still incubating, gestating ourselves in a version that never seems ready enough to see the light of day. Amidst a pile of practical tasks and the desperation of an endless scroll of war news, memes that satirize reality, and coaching tips with five habits for a healthier life, where do our dreams reside?

We are crushed by the mountain of other people's opinions about ourselves and everything around us, unable to recognize our own, to hear our thoughts and feelings, always being slaves to none of them?

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Sometimes, solitude is the only relief we have, even when we are starving for a type of liberation, we continue in silence.

We spend so much time sustaining all the expectations of better winds, but we never awaken to the soft call of ourselves. We must maintain the structures that continue to devour our chest, being strong, swallowing our tears, and inverting values without ever understanding our priorities. For those who were made to serve, moments of free will become true tortures, for those who have never before had the sensation of living without fear.

We live in expectation of calling someone a leader and claiming the false autonomous choice over our own desires, in the longing for something we can crush, or even hurt, be it the other or, worse, ourselves.

In the apathy of a new autumn, we live in hope of a spring, whatever it may be.

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