Welcome back.
You decided to return to your haunted house again.
The candle in your hand is smaller now,
But yet.
.
.
The flame steadier.
It knows the way intuitively.
You follow its glow through the front door.
And a narrow staircase winds upward.
You can smell the dust.
Cedar,
And faint sweetness of old paper.
Each step.
Protest just a little.
Like it's been keeping secrets for way too long.
Breathe in now.
The scent of memory.
Breathe out.
The heaviness of resistance.
But keep climbing.
At the top,
A small door waits.
And as you push it open.
.
.
Air sighs past you.
Still.
Yet honest.
Welcome to the addict in your mind.
Sit or stand somewhere comfortable.
And notice the coolness of air against your skin.
Your breath may feel heavier here,
And that's all right.
It's supposed to.
Imagine the light from your candle spilling over the dusty trunks.
Boxes marked with words written in your handwriting.
Regret.
What I should have done.
What I should have known.
Inversions I've abandoned.
Let your breath become your broom.
Inhale.
Gather.
Exhale.
Clear Say softly to yourself now.
I am safe enough to remember.
Reach for your tea.
Its warmth is your tether.
The living heartbeat inside the attic of ghosts.
Wrap your hands around the cup.
And let the steam mingle in the candlelight.
As you sip your tea.
Imagine the flavor unlocking your courage.
A spell of sweetness melting away through old shame.
You don't need to fight these memories.
You just need to witness them.
Take a slow breath in now.
Feel the tea spreading through your body.
Liquid love.
Infiltrating every cobweb and crevice of your being.
Pick up the box.
The one that reads.
Mistakes.
You open it.
Carefully.
Inside our moments.
Times you've lashed out.
Times you've stayed silent.
Times you've loved people.
Who didn't stay.
Instead of judgment now.
Offer curiosity.
Ask each memory.
What were you trying to protect me from?
And then just.
.
.
Listen.
You might hear a whisper.
Things like,
I was trying to keep you safe.
I was trying to make you belong.
I didn't know any better.
Let tears come.
If they need to.
Let numbness stay if that's what's here now.
You are not here to rewrite history.
You are here to reclaim authorship.
In the corner.
A trunk sits apart.
The label is almost unreadable.
You wipe it clean.
Dreams That Died.
Open it.
Inside are objects of beauty you once adored.
A half-written poem.
Photo from when you believed.
Costume from a version of you that was too wild to survive in this world.
Touch them gently.
You don't have to resurrect them.
But you can thank them for existing at all.
Say.
I release the belief that I must stay small to be safe.
As you speak,
The addict brightens.
The candle doesn't flicker anymore,
It expands.
Its light stretches into every corner until every shadow glows.
What you see is not clutter.
It's compost.
Everything that once felt wasted.
Every failure,
Heartbreak,
Loss.
You are breaking down into the fertile soil of you.
You're not carrying baggage.
You are tending to a garden of becoming.
Take a sip of your tea now.
And let the truth steep inside of you.
Every swallow,
Every breath.
Is reclamation.
Close your eyes.
If they aren't already.
And breathe deeply into your belly.
Exhale through your mouth with sound.
A sigh,
A growl,
Whatever feels right.
Notice what your body feels like right now.
Maybe lighter.
Maybe just.
.
.
Aware.
Say quietly.
I am allowed to outgrow my old survival stories.
I keep the lessons,
Not the punishment.
Let those lines echo.
Within your heartbeat.
As I repeat these affirmations.
Take a deep breath in between each.
I can hold my past without being held hostage by it.
Every memory is a map.
Not a prison.
My mistakes are evidence that I tried.
I honor who I was.
And who I'm becoming.
I am worthy of peace.
Even after chaos.
You can stand now,
Looking around your attic.
Boxes.
Neatly closed.
Labeled differently now.
Wisdom.
Experience.
Alchemy You leave them here.
Knowing that you can come and return any time you want.
But you don't have to live here anymore.
As you step down the stairs.
Each footstep feels like a heartbeat returning home.
And at the bottom.
You turn back once.
And whisper into the darkness.
Thank you for surviving so I could thrive.
Take one sip of your tea now.
Feel the warmth slide through your body like a promise to be kept.
Breathe in Breathe out.
The door to the attic closes softly behind you.
Not locked.
Chest.
At peace.
Thank you so much for returning to your internal haunted house.
As you explore.
Your incredible self-love journey.
Thank you so much for being here,
And as always,
Stay steeped in love.
And gratitude.
