A fire that doesn't Burn

There is a quiet knowing that lives beneath the noise of the world. It does not shout. It does not beg. It simply waits—like a flame that neither flickers nor fades, holding its place in the dark until I am ready to remember.

Some days, I wonder what it would be like to live without questions. To move through the world with a script, a guide, a certainty. But purpose, I’ve come to learn, is not always a destination. It is a return. A remembering. A commitment to walk with the unseen, even when the path disappears beneath my feet.

My purpose does not announce itself in grand gestures or accolades. It comes in stillness. In the ache to write what can’t be spoken, to love what has been forgotten, to listen when everything else begs for attention. It is the pull I feel when my hands touch the earth, when my words reach another soul, when I choose truth over comfort—again and again.

There are days when doubt knocks louder than clarity. When I am tempted to measure my worth by what I produce or how I am perceived. But purpose does not live in outcomes. It lives in alignment. In the quiet courage to keep showing up, even when no one is watching. Even when the world does not understand.

Some people chase purpose like a mountain to conquer. But for me, it is something I carry. A light that leads me—not upward, but inward. And the deeper I go, the more I see: it was never about becoming something new. It was about peeling back everything I am not.

I am not here to impress. I am here to express. I am not here to perform. I am here to remember. And in remembering, I serve—not from ambition, but from devotion.

My purpose is not something I find. It is something I allow. A river that flows through me when I choose presence over fear, truth over silence, and love over all. And so I continue—feet on sacred ground, pen in hand, heart open—trusting that every small act, every sacred breath, is part of something far greater than me.