living in contradiction

living in contradiction

I don’t think growth feels peaceful at first.

I think it feels like standing in the middle of yourself, pulled in opposite directions, trying to decide which parts of you are allowed to stay.

Lately, I’ve been living in that tension — caught between who I’ve been, who I want to be, and who I actually am when no one is watching. I question my morals, my instincts, my reactions. What is right? What is natural? What is simply human? I want to do good. I want to move through the world with kindness and integrity. And yet, I still judge. I still laugh at things that feel misaligned with my values — things that seem shallow, strange, or far removed from what I experience as meaningful.

There’s a part of me that craves depth beyond the surface — beyond noise, ego, and performance — something that feels more than the smallest building blocks of existence. And when something doesn’t resonate with that, I dismiss it. Sometimes unkindly. Sometimes without much thought. Not everyone is my cup of tea — and maybe that truth doesn’t make me wrong, but it does ask me to stay aware of how I hold it.

I’m starting to understand that light and dark aren’t enemies fighting for control — they are co-creators. The light shows me who I aspire to be. The dark shows me where I’m still tender, defensive, or unhealed. Pretending the dark doesn’t exist doesn’t make me good — it just disconnects me from myself.

I know my flaws well. I overthink until my thoughts knot together. I over speak when I’m overwhelmed. I’ve had moments where my emotions ran louder than my wisdom — moments that feel uncomfortable to revisit now, but were survival at the time. Growth has a way of shining light on things we once did unconsciously, and that awareness can feel both grounding and painful.

One of my deepest values is trust. I want to be someone who keeps her word. Someone people feel safe opening up to. And yet, I’ve had to face a difficult contradiction in myself: when I spiral, when I’m desperate to make sense of my own pain, I sometimes share too much. In trying to unburden myself, I’ve spoken about others in ways that crossed boundaries — sharing fragments of conversations that weren’t mine alone to hold.

That awareness stings. Especially when people speak highly of me. Especially when I know how much integrity matters to me. Guilt follows quickly in those moments, whispering that I should know better by now. But guilt, I’m learning, doesn’t actually help me grow. It keeps me stuck looking backward, punishing myself instead of choosing responsibility and repair.

What I’m trying to practice instead is accountability without cruelty. Reflection without self-hatred. Understanding that recognising harm doesn’t require me to abandon compassion for myself.

Kindness is another value I hold close — and another place where contradiction lives. I care deeply. I want to show up gently. And yet, I notice how easily I laugh with friends about strangers who are different. Never to their faces. Never with malice intended. But still, I question it. Where is the line? When does humour become judgment? When does a passing thought start to shape who we are?

Maybe judgment isn’t proof that I’m failing — maybe it’s information. A signal pointing to my own discomfort, conditioning, or unexamined beliefs. Spiritual growth, I’m realising, isn’t about being endlessly pleasant or morally spotless. It’s about being honest enough to notice the shadow without letting it lead.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that being “good” meant being gentle at all times, patient without limit, and kind without boundaries. But life doesn’t live in absolutes, and neither does integrity. Maybe good and bad aren’t fixed identities we either earn or lose. Maybe they are moments, choices, and lessons — and maybe growth is choosing awareness over perfection.

I am changing. And change is disorienting.

There’s excitement in this newfound confidence, but also uncertainty. I don’t yet know how this version of me fully shows up in the world. I just know she’s more grounded, more aware, and far less willing to abandon herself to keep the peace.

I’m proud of myself for surviving seasons that nearly broke me. I feel more hopeful now — but hope brings clarity, and clarity asks for courage. Letting some people go. Leaning into unfamiliar experiences. Choosing growth over comfort. Learning that boundaries aren’t punishments — they are protection.

Still, they hurt.

They hurt because some of the people I’m stepping back from are hurting too. They need support. And choosing myself doesn’t erase the sadness of not being able to carry everyone else’s pain anymore. Spiritual growth isn’t all light and love — sometimes it’s grief, silence, and walking away with compassion in your chest and tears in your eyes.

There are so many things I don’t have answers for. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe this chapter isn’t about certainty, but surrender. About releasing the need to define exactly who I’m becoming, and allowing myself to unfold slowly, imperfectly, honestly.

What I do know is this: my spirit is craving stillness. Nature. Breath. Presence. A return to something ancient and grounding. Inner peace not as an achievement, but as a practice — something I choose again and again.

Maybe living in contradiction isn’t a failure of character. Maybe it’s the birthplace of wisdom. Maybe the work isn’t to rid myself of darkness, but to meet it with honesty, responsibility, and grace — trusting that light knows how to find me when I stop running from my own shadow.