Nobody warns you that being “a good person” can be a slow form of suicide. You say “no problem” when it is, in fact, a very big problem. You contort your spine, your schedule, and your soul to accommodate others, leaving yourself a crumpled heap of resentment and exhaustion on the floor. And you call it being nice. You call it being spiritual. You call it being a good person. I call it a lie. > *"If you haven't screamed into a towel, dry-heaved your oppressive lineage into the Earth, or told a spiritual mentor to fuck off while holding full love in your heart — you might still be in spiritual kindergarten."* A lie whispered into the marrow of your bones from the moment you were born. A lie that tells you your needs are secondary, your desires are selfish, and your “no” is a declaration of war. This isn’t just a bad habit. It’s a wound. A deep, festering wound of self-abandonment that bleeds out your life force, one tiny drop at a time. You feel it, don’t you? The hollow ache in your chest. The tightness in your throat when you want to speak up but swallow