The Shapes That Weren't Yours

When old contracts resurface to finally get cancelled

Everything is finally fine. You did the work. You read the books, you sat with the feelings, you even did that breathwork thing where you cried in a room full of strangers and someone named River held space for you while you ugly-sobbed into a bolster. You journaled until your hand cramped. You therapized until your therapist started taking notes for HER therapist. You released with ceremony, with intention, with a candle that cost forty five dollars because it was “hand-poured with moon water.” DONE. Graduated. Enlightened. Moving on.

And then: one memory. Random. 3am. Okay, maybe it’s nothing. Another one. This time in the shower. A face you hadn’t thought about in years. A kitchen you forgot existed. A version of yourself wearing clothes you donated to Goodwill in 2016, saying things you can’t believe you ever meant. Another. Another. A whole fucking parade of stuff you SOLVED. Not just thought you solved. FELT solved. Composted. Graduated. Released with that forty seven five candle and everything.

What the actual fuck? Your body isn’t broken. It’s conducting an audit. Every contract you ever signed from the fog of your wound is being retrieved from the filing cabinet of your fascia, reviewed under new light, stamped with red ink that finally says: NO LONGER APPLICABLE. Your bones are doing paperwork. Your blood is filing appeals. Your tissue is in a conference room somewhere saying, “Why did we agree to THIS?”