The Fear That Raised Us

I’ve been thinking about my mom lately.
About fear.
About what it does to people.

See, I used to think she was just controlling.
That everything was about ego and power and keeping things her way.

But now I’m starting to realize—
it wasn’t just about control.
It was about fear.

She was terrified of being seen as crazy.
Terrified of what society might say if she slowed down long enough
to feel the things she was actually feeling.

Because we live in a world that tells you—
if you’re too emotional, too spiritual, too intuitive,
there’s something wrong with you.

And my mom bought into that.
She was so afraid of being judged,
she let fear run the show.

She was consumed by ego—
but only because ego felt safer than truth.

And it’s not just her.

There’s a whole generation out there that was taught to hide their intuition.
To be ashamed of their sensitivity.
To bury their weird.

They were raised on fear dressed up as religion.
Taught to trust authority over instinct.
To follow the rules, even when the rules were broken.

So what happens?

They never slow down.
They never ask questions.
They never look for signs—because signs don’t show up
when your eyes are closed.

And the people in power?
They want that.

They want the world divided into “right” and “wrong,”
into saved and unsaved,
into us and them.

Because when everything becomes black and white,
you stop noticing all the color in between.
You stop listening.

You stop being curious.
You just obey.

And now we’ve got a society addicted to the blame game.
Nobody wants to slow down and hear someone else’s story—
we just want to be right.

Healthy debate?
That’s rare.
We don’t know how to disagree with grace anymore.
We just shout. Or scroll away.

But here’s the thing:

Being wrong isn’t failure.
It’s growth.

And listening to someone else doesn’t mean you lose yourself.
It means you expand.

We don’t need more arguments.
We need more compassion.
More curiosity.
More people brave enough to pause and say—
“Tell me what you see. Tell me what you’ve lived.”

My mom didn’t feel safe enough to do that.
And yeah, it caused pain.
But I see her now—
Not as the villain.
But as someone who never had the tools.

And maybe that’s the work now.
To be the ones who do have the tools.
To be the generation that listens.

Even when it’s uncomfortable.
Especially when it’s uncomfortable.

Because discomfort?
That’s where truth grows.