She's Not Coming Tomorrow Morning

Last night was the full moon.

And I buried her.

Not the way you let go of a grudge — with a decision. The way you let go of a body — with a burial.

She was the woman who discounted herself before anyone had to ask.
Who priced herself low so no one would feel burdened.
Who was available to everyone and therefore belonged to no one.
Who caught what should have been caught by others — and called it love.
Who stayed quiet to keep the room comfortable.
Who waited for permission from people who had none to give.
Who took the blame and mistook it for guilt.
Who braced before every step, because she had been interrupted before.

She wasn't weak. She was load-bearing.
And she carried weight that was never hers to carry.

I didn't send her away in anger.
She got me here. She carried what I couldn't carry then.
She is honored. And she is done.

For years I thought the goal was to become stronger.

To endure more. To hold more. To be the one who could take it.
It wasn't.
The goal was to stop being the floor.
A floor holds everyone and gets walked on.

A hearth burns — and people find their own way to the warmth.
I have been the floor for a very long time.
I am done being the floor.
Here's what I know now that I didn't know a year ago:

**You cannot heal a field by holding it.
**You cannot free people by carrying them.
**You cannot be loved by being endlessly available.
**You cannot be safe by being silent.

Every time I made myself smaller so someone else could be comfortable, I made the room colder.
Every time I caught someone who should have fallen, I took their lesson.
Every time I discounted myself, I taught the field that my work was worth less.

And the field believed me.

That's the part that took me years to see.
The field doesn't respond to what you want. It responds to what you signal.
And I had been signaling *I am not the one* for a long, long time.


So last night I changed the signal.

Not with a plan. With a burial.

The woman who discounted is gone.
The woman who was available for everyone is gone.
The woman who waited to be told she was allowed is gone.

**She is not coming tomorrow morning.**


What arrives instead is the truth teller.

Not someone who speaks to be liked.
Not someone who speaks to be safe.
Not someone who speaks and then checks the room.

Someone who speaks because the field requires it.
Someone who says the true thing and lets it land where it lands.
Someone who stays seated when the room gets uncomfortable.
Because here's what I finally understand:

The truth doesn't need to be defended.
It needs to be spoken — once, cleanly, and then released.

And I spent my whole life waiting for the right moment to speak.
**Waiting for the room to be ready.
**Waiting for the people to be ready.
**Waiting for permission.

I was the permission.

I always was.


So this is the arrival.

Not a transformation. A return.
Not a new me. The one who was always underneath her.

The one who knew.
The one who saw.
The one who stayed silent so long because she was waiting for a moment that was never going to come from outside her.

The moment is here.
It was last night.
And it's mine.

She's not coming tomorrow morning.

I am.