Permission to Be Human: The Validation Station

You are not crazy for talking to the moon,
for finding faces in the clouds,
for believing that the wind
carries messages from the dead.

I am not alone in thinking
that certain words taste like colors,
that some poems arrive
already written in the air.

The world is strange enough
to match our strangest imaginings.
There is room here for your mythology,
space for your personal cosmology.

You have permission to be magical,
to see connections others miss,
to trust the language that rises
from the deepest parts of your knowing.

Words give us permission to be human
in all our impossible complexity,
to contradict ourselves and mean it,
to be both question and answer.

Permission to Be

She watches strangers on the subway, 
reading their sorrows 
like braille beneath their skin. 

The woman in the corner seat carries her mother's ghost 
in the curve of her shoulders. 

The man by the window holds conversations 
with his younger self, 
the one who believed 
in forever. 

They think she cannot see, 
but she has always been fluent 
in the language of unspoken grief.

You recognize the weight of inherited sadness, 
don't you? 

The way trauma moves 
through bloodlines 
like an underground river,
surfacing in your dreams, 
in the way you flinch 
at certain sounds, 
in the stories your body tells 
without your permission. 

Your grandmother's anxiety 
lives in your ribcage. 
Your father's silence 
echoes in your throat.

He stands in his kitchen at 3 AM, 
watching steam rise from his coffee cup 
like prayers ascending. 
The refrigerator 
hums lullabies his mother once sang. 
Every surface holds the memory 
of hands that will never touch them again. 
He speaks to photographs, 
waters plants with tears, 
finds holy communion 
in the simplest acts of remembering.

You have learned 
that grief is not linear, 
haven't you? 
That it arrives like seasons—
unexpected, 
overwhelming, then gentle, 
then fierce again. 
You have discovered that love persists 
beyond the boundaries of breath, 
that the dead speak through 
the living in ways 
that would make skeptics weep. Your heart has become 
a museum of moments, 
each memory a relic 
more precious than gold.

They gather in circles, 
these believers 
in the impossible, 
sharing stories 
that would be dismissed 
as madness in daylight. 
But here, 
in the soft darkness 
of understanding, 
their truths 
bloom like 
night-blooming cereus—
rare, beautiful, 
impossibly real. 
They know 
that healing happens 
in the spaces 
between words, 
that some wounds 
become doorways 
to deeper compassion.

You belong to 
this fellowship 
of the tender-hearted, 
the ones 
who feel too much 
and love too deeply. 
You have earned 
your place 
among those 
who know 
that being human 
means 
being gloriously, 
heartbreakingly, 
magnificently 
broken—and somehow, 
in that breaking, 
finding the courage 
to remain beautifully, 
defiantly alive.

I am learning to trust
the magic that lives in my bones,
the way my shadow knows things
my mind hasn't discovered yet.

Today I spoke to my reflection
and she answered back
in my grandmother's voice,
telling me secrets
about the color of forgiveness.

I am collecting evidence
of the impossible:
the way certain songs
can resurrect the dead,
how my tears taste different
when I cry for others,
the fact that some wounds
heal only in moonlight.

The woman on the subway
and I locked eyes today—
we recognized each other
as members of the same tribe,
carriers of the same sacred burden:
knowing that everything hurts
and everything heals
and everything matters.

I am writing letters
to the parts of myself
I thought were broken,
apologizing for the years
I called them crazy,
thanking them for keeping
the mystical alive
in a world that demanded proof.

My mythology is not madness—
it is the only way I know
how to make sense
of this beautiful catastrophe
called being human.

I give myself permission
to be the bridge
between ordinary and extraordinary,
to trust that the moon
has been listening all along,
that the wind carries more
than just the scent of rain.

I am not alone.
We are not alone.
We are the ones who remember
that magic is not escape
from reality—
it is the deepest truth
about what it means
to be alive.

Tonight, I will tuck my wild heart
into bed with gratitude,
whisper sweet mercies
to the parts of me
that have been afraid to dream.

I will tell my inner child
that she was right all along—
the trees do have names,
the stars do keep secrets,
and love is the only currency
that multiplies when spent.

Tomorrow, I will wake up
and choose wonder again,
choose to see miracles
in the mundane geometry
of morning light through windows,
in the way my coffee steam
writes ephemeral poetry
against the kitchen air.

I will remember that healing
happens in the spaces between breaths,
that every scar tells a story
of survival, of the body's
infinite capacity to mend,
to bloom again after winter.

I will carry my tender heart
like a lantern through darkness,
knowing that somewhere
another soul is doing the same,
that we are all walking each other
home through this strange
and beautiful wilderness.

My mythology will expand
to include every moment
of grace I've been given:
the way strangers smile
at babies on trains,
how rain sounds like applause
on rooftops, the fact
that somewhere right now
someone is falling in love
for the first time.

I am learning to be gentle
with my own becoming,
to trust the slow unfurling
of my most authentic self,
to honor the sacred work
of being human in all
its messy, magnificent glory.

This is my benediction:
May we all remember
that we are made of stardust
and stories, that our sensitivity
is not weakness but wisdom,
that our capacity to feel deeply
is the very thing that makes
this world worth saving.

May we sleep peacefully
knowing that tomorrow
holds infinite possibilities
for wonder, for healing,
for the kind of magic
that happens when we dare
to be exactly who we are.

Sweet dreams, fellow dreamers.
The moon is keeping watch
over all of us tonight.

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