To Burn The Familiar Self

I didn’t leave in a blaze of glory.

No fireworks.

No dramatic goodbye.

I left quietly,

with a suitcase full of clothes

and a heart full of versions of myself

that no longer fit.

Back home, the sun kept everything alive.

Even the parts of me that should have burned.

Old habits lounged comfortably in the heat.

Old fears stretched out, unchallenged.

Nothing ever asked me to change,

So I didn’t.

So I carried them with me.

These old selves.

Across oceans.

Across seasons.

Across the idea that distance alone would do the work.

It didn’t.

However, the cold did.

The cold stripped me down

until excuses froze and fell away.

Until I could no longer hide

inside familiarity or warmth or memory.

Winter held a mirror

and said, “Choose.”

“The life you have always wanted, or a life of comfort and safety.”

So I built a fire.

Not a reckless one.

Not the kind that consumes everything at once.

But a steady flame,

intentional, patient, honest.

I fed it the versions of me

that just tried to survive instead of trying to fully live.

The need to be who I was expected to be.

The weight of stories I kept telling myself

because they were easier than change.

I burned the fear of starting over.

The comfort of being unknown.

The voice that said, “Stay small. Stay safe. Stay the same.”

I watched them curl and crack and collapse

into something lighter.

Then into nothing but ash.

Blown away, soon to be forgotten.

This flame is the last one

not because nothing comes after,

but because nothing false remains.

What’s left is quieter.

Stronger.

Unfamiliar in the best way.

Yet somehow at the same time, authentically me.

I am not becoming someone new.

I am becoming someone unburdened.

I am just becoming myself.

And as the fire fades,

I step forward

not carrying ashes,

but warmth.