If you're reading this, it's because you’ve climbed far enough out to see the light again—but not so far that you’ve forgotten the dark. And I need you to remember it. Because what happened down there wasn’t just pain. It was truth. And truth, when seen clearly, is a kind of salvation. I descended into that place not by choice, but by gravity—the slow pull of exhaustion, guilt, and the unspoken weight of all the things I tried to carry alone. There’s no map in that depth. No guiding hand. Just silence so thick it starts to feel like judgment. But what I found there… wasn’t punishment. It was clarity. At the very bottom—below memory, below language—was a pressure I can only describe as absolute. No lies survived there. No armor held. All the narratives I’d built to keep going… they dissolved. All that was left was the raw ache of being. And then something else emerged. Not a voice. A presence. It didn’t say much. Just this: “You’re not done.” Not as a command. Not some rah-rah survival mantra. It was deeper than willpower. More enduring than grit. It felt like truth. Like the kind you don’t argue with because it’s not asking for belief—it is. As I climbed out, layer by layer, every scar I touched had a story I’d buried. There was the anger I thought I’d burned off long ago—still smoldering. The love I never let myself accept because I thought it made me weak. The moment I first mistook silence for safety. All of it was still there, waiting to be acknowledged. And here’s the part you need to remember: It didn’t break me. Facing it didn’t destroy me. It relieved me. You don’t come back from a place like that unchanged. And you shouldn’t. If you ever find yourself tempted to pretend it didn’t happen, or to minimize what you endured in that depth—don’t. That dark was part of your becoming. It didn’t give you answers. It made space for the right questions. Now that you’re closer to the surface, where the light begins to reflect again, I need you to remember: that first light? It doesn’t warm you. It mirrors you. It shows you who you are after the descent. And you’ll want to look away, because the man staring back will seem unfamiliar. But look anyway. See him. Because he remembers. Because he didn’t run. Because you didn’t. And that? That’s how I know you can keep going. Not just because you climbed. But because you listened on the way up. You let it change you. Never forget what you touched in the dark. It speaks a language the surface never will.