We were taught that pain needs purpose. That something hard must be translatable into a lesson to have value. That we must extract meaning like miners digging through rubble, searching for gold to justify the ache.
But not all pain is a puzzle.
Not all confusion is an error.
Not all endings need explanations.
Some things just are.
A relationship dissolves.
A dream disorients.
A door closes—and no new one opens for a long, long while.
The mind begs for meaning, but the soul remains quiet. Still integrating. Still learning a language without words.
There is a sacred violence in demanding clarity from what is still becoming.
And sometimes, it is more loving to sit with the fog than to pretend you see.
When you stop trying to name it, you start to know it.
When you stop forcing the narrative, you start feeling the truth.
Meaning, real meaning, does not arrive through control. It arrives through presence.
Let the season teach you without dissecting it. Let it wash over you. Let it hollow out what no longer fits. Let it carve a space where something truer can live.
You don’t have to make sense of this yet.
Some meanings are slow miracles.
Some come only after you’ve stopped searching.
And some are meant to live unnamed—mysterious, unfinished, holy.