When the world stops calling you by name, who are you?
For a long time, I didn’t know. After the headlines, after the laughter, after the empty inboxes and locked doors, there was just space—too much space. I was no longer anything I had spent years pretending to be.
The achiever.
The dreamer.
The visionary.
Even the villain.
All of it burned.
The Void Has No Witnesses
This is the part of transformation no one talks about. Not the fall. Not the rise. The space between.
When you become the ashwalker.
The one who moves through spiritual scorched earth. Quietly. Namelessly. Looking for something that doesn’t even have a shape yet.
There’s no applause here. No redemption arc. No validation.
Just the sound of your own breath. Just your feet on the broken ground.
The Fragments We Carry
You start noticing the parts of yourself that didn’t burn. Tiny, stubborn things. A poem you memorised as a child. The smell of your mother’s perfume. The time you made a stranger laugh and felt like God was real for just a second.
These are not identities. They are soul-prints. Indestructible pieces of you.
When you lose everything, those fragments become your only compass.
Why the Ashes Matter
I used to think healing meant becoming something new.
Now I believe healing means walking backward into the wreckage and gently gathering what’s still breathing. You don’t fix yourself. You recover yourself.
The ashwalker doesn’t look for gold.
He looks for the broken, sacred truth buried beneath the myth of who he thought he was.
That’s what I’m doing now.
And if you’re here reading this, maybe that’s what you’re doing too.