You Are Remembering On Purpose

I didn’t go looking for memory.
But it found me.

Two days after the flood,
when the earth was still heavy with what she’d swallowed,
I walked barefoot in the park among the trees, damp ground soft beneath me,
528Hz pouring from my speaker…
a love song for the collective,
a lullaby for the ache.

I told myself I was doing it for others.
That the sound was a balm for the community after what we’d just experienced.
But truthfully… I needed it just as much.

I’d carried an invisible ache since the waters came.
Not fear, something older.
Like deep sorrow that didn’t belong to this lifetime.
Like the ghost of something left undone.

And then it came.

A sudden pull in my chest.
Sharp. Sacred. Undeniable.
It wasn’t cardiac or panic.
It was remembrance,
a wave that had traveled lifetimes just to crash into me in that very moment.

I clutched my ribs and slowed my steps,
but the pain only grew louder.

I was no longer only in this body,
and yet, I was.

The park faded.
And in its place-
a dense forest clearing,
fog curling at the edges like breath.
My breath.
Her breath.

I stood at the edge of the forest,
watching a man ride away on horseback,
just far enough to know he wasn’t coming back.

There were no horses around me.
No battlefield.
Only the wind.
And the sudden flood of memory that cracked me open.

I cried out,
screaming, reaching for him, begging him not to go,
but he didn’t look back.
He couldn’t.
I fell to my knees, and my heart tore open in a way no scream could ever reach.

Centuries later,
in this body,
I felt it still.

Grief, when it’s ancient, is not poetic.
It is physical.
It is nausea.
It is trembling.
It is pressure in the ribs.
It is memories returning not as thoughts,
but as symptoms,
as sudden tears,
as strange fatigue,
as the weight of someone else’s goodbye
replaying inside your own chest.

I stood still.
Heart pounding.
Eyes wet.
Throat dry.
And as I clutched my chest, I whispered:

“I remember you.”

To the one I remember:

You returned in form and frequency.
You arrived in the ache,
the breathless ache of a soul who has loved across time
and dared to remember.

I saw you.
I saw me.
The way we once were.
The way we fractured.

A war we didn’t choose.
A promise we couldn’t keep.
A love we never truly lost,
only buried beneath centuries of forgetting.

You left and never returned,
and the silence stretched through lifetimes.
Still, I carry this echo,
not out of sorrow alone,
but out of love that never unthreaded from the fabric of my being.

I thought that part of me was gone,
buried beneath lifetimes of grief,
but you activated it.
Your presence stirred something I thought had died.
A fire I had nearly forgotten.

And though my knees once buckled beneath that grief,
this time… I rise.

Not because I’ve let go of you,
but because I’ve come home to me.

I remember.
I reclaim.
And in my remembering, I ignite the vow I once made to my own soul,
to never again abandon the truth of who I am,
no matter who stays, no matter who goes.

I carry the flame.
I guard the truth.
I walk the path unbroken.

To the part of me that woke up:

You were never broken.
You were remembering.

And the pain that rose wasn’t punishment,
as it once appeared,
it was resurrection.

Grief is sacred, you see.
It’s the priestess of awakening.
The key that opens what we’ve locked away.
The dark that splits us wide,
so the light can find its way in.

This is the miracle of remembrance,
when the soul offers up a fragment of itself,
not to wound you, but to ready you.

These memories are codes.
Flashes of soul truth igniting as prophecy.
Not just echoes of the past,
but signals of what’s to come.
Activation. Preparation. Arrival.

And I know her now. I see her.
The woman I’ve been longing to embody all my life.

The warrior.
The wise woman.
The shieldmaiden.

She who rises not untouched by darkness,
but forged within it.
She who loves like the sea: tender, vast, unyielding.
Who meets battle not with fear,
but with fire.

A pagan soul.
A seer beneath storm clouds.
A woman of the North, of bone and flame,
who walked with wolves
and trusted the wind.

She saw through the veil.
She held the in between.
She believed in magic not because it was taught,
but because it lived inside her.

She has been here all along.
I do not need to create her.

I am she.
She is me.
And we are no longer afraid of remembering.

And maybe, just maybe…
this love story was never about someone else.

Maybe it was always about me.

"So I’m dancing in the spiral.
The waves get further, but deeper.
And I’d rather dive to the bottom
than let it make me weaker.

Now I see that certainty
is just another illusion.
I’d rather be free in the abyss
than caged in my conclusion.

I’m falling in love
with this new version of me.
Would have never met her
had the truth not set me free.

I’ve stopped waiting for the one
and started becoming she,
and I’m finally realizing:

maybe this love story
was always about me.”

This is the miracle of soul remembrance,
when the veil thins not just in vision,
but in feeling.

When the soul hands you a piece of yourself,
wrapped in sorrow,
and says:
“Here. Hold this. It will make you whole again.”

These memories aren’t meant to haunt you.
They’re meant to ready you,
to sharpen the edges of your awareness,
to awaken the sleeping parts of your power.

To free you from the weight that was never yours to carry.
To liberate you from the loops you were never meant to repeat.
To remind you that you are not here to survive the past,
you are here to rise beyond it.

Every scar a sigil.
Every lesson a weapon forged in fire.
Every remembrance a step onto the path of the one you came here to become.

To the ones who feel too much, remember too deeply,
& love without reason:

This is your sign.

You are not crazy.
You are not weak.
You are not alone.

You are being prepared.

Sometimes the soul returns through sorrow.
Sometimes what breaks your heart
is what also breaks your amnesia.

And if your body carries grief you cannot name,
if you ache for someone you don’t even know,
if your dreams speak in symbols beyond articulation,
it is not delusion.
It is direction.

You are not grieving the past.
You are reclaiming your future.
You are preparing. Activating. Becoming.

So let the ache rise.
Let it speak.
Let it lead.

You’ve done this before.
You survived it then.
You rise again now.

This is not just memory.
It is mission.

And you, beloved,

You are remembering on purpose.

I see you. ILY <3