Reckless

People say I feel too easily. Love too hard. Anger too quickly. Laugh too recklessly.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m not made to hold back. Maybe I was never meant to be.

But what if that ache, the one that rips you open and lets the world pour in, isn’t a flaw? What if it’s holy?

We think of divinity as something clean, distant, untouched. Has the divine never collapsed under sorrow, never burned with rage, never leaned so hard into joy that it hurt? What if true divinity isn’t some calm, detached thing? What if it’s right there in the mess of it all? It takes more than just existing to hold that kind of weight without breaking. I am the tide pulled by two moons, rising high with wonder and crashing low with sorrow, never at rest, always in motion. Even living forever wouldn’t be enough. You’d need something else. Something that takes in the flood and doesn’t drown. Something divine.

That’s what divinity really is. Not the absence of pain, but the willingness to feel it all. To feel like this is to live like an ancient city, layer upon layer of stories buried beneath my skin, ruins and rebirth tangled in my veins.

I feel it. All of it. Like a house with every door thrown open during a storm, grief, beauty, fury, and love come rushing in.. I see a mother weeping at an empty crib, and the silence digs into me, sharp and suffocating. I hear the laughter of lovers blooming like spring on a balcony, and I glow in their sun. I stumble with the man begging for rest from battles no one else sees. I spin with the girl who finally feels safe in her own world again.

And yeah, it hurts. Not in a poetic way. Not beautifully. It just hurts. Sometimes I wonder if they’re right, if I’d be better off shutting it all out, toughening up, going numb. But then I remember:

The world teaches us to armor up. To keep our distance. To act like we’re fine, even when we’re not. But I think the real miracle is staying open. Letting it all in. Taking the hit and still wanting more.

Maybe that’s what really breaks people. Not the pain itself, but pretending it doesn’t hurt. Trying not to feel. Building dams when we’re supposed to be rivers. But I let it in. The heartbreak. The beauty. The anger. The awe. It moves through me like wind through tall grass, bending me, reshaping me, whispering truths I can’t unhear.

Yeah, it overwhelms me. Yeah, sometimes I shake under the weight of it. But I’d rather be overwhelmed than empty. I’d rather cry for a stranger’s pain, dance in someone else’s joy, scream at the injustice I can’t fix, and laugh so loud it makes people stare than coast through life untouched.

To feel this much, like it might tear you apart, that’s got to be sacred, right? Living with your heart wide open, raw and shining, that’s as close to the divine as I’ll ever get.

So no, I won’t shrink. I won’t hold back my joy, water down my anger, or leash my love. Let them say I feel too much. Let them call me reckless, soft, undone.

I’d rather be too much, a wildfire, a flood, a storm that refuses to settle, than feel nothing at all.

Because this ache, this burning, this fullness, It’s not a flaw. It’s proof that I, too, am sacred.