Soul Said Go, But I Was Still Stubborning

Soul said Go, “Quietly, if you must. But go.”

And yet, I didn’t.

I didn’t go because there was no storm. No dramatic moment to force an exit. No fight that gave me permission. Just a subtle shift—an eerie, almost imperceptible difference that made the air feel heavier. The kind of change you can’t prove, but you feel. Something had moved without moving, and I stayed… because staying was easier than decoding the shift.

I convinced myself I was fine. That the discomfort I felt was seasonal, circumstantial, or even self-created. I told myself that waiting might help, that patience might heal whatever was starting to ache. But my spirit whispered the truth.

For me, that whisper came as a dream. Three odd words arrived while I was asleep—“personal hitter,” “don’t rise it,” “stubborning.” Strange, I know. But something in them stuck. 

I didn’t understand them at first. But the more I sat with it, the more I realised they weren’t nonsense. They were messages. From my subconscious. From my soul. From the part of me that was tired of being polite about my own suffering.

Let me explain.

“Personal Hitter”

Not a punch. Not a scream. But a sting that’s quiet, undermining, and invisible. 

It reminded me of all the moments someone dismissed my feelings, recast my reactions as too much, minimised my experience so they wouldn’t have to hold it. It’s the bruise you get when someone refuses to acknowledge your softness as strength. It’s the way emotional harm becomes a background hum while you keep being “understanding,” until one day you can’t tell if you’re kind or just conditioned.

“Don’t Rise it”

That internal warning bell.

There’s a thin line between peace and suppression. For a long time, I didn’t know that.

“Don’t rise it,” soul said—clear as day, mid-dream. It didn’t make grammatical sense, but I understood it anyway. She wasn’t talking about bread. She was talking about me.

I used to think shrinking was noble. That staying silent meant emotional maturity. That letting things slide meant I was being the “bigger person.” I swallowed discomfort and called it grace. I laughed things off that actually stung. I walked away from confrontation, not because I felt peace, but because I didn’t want to seem loud. Dramatic. Too much.

I’ve had many moments of telling myself “It’s not worth bringing up,” “they didn’t mean it like that,” “I don’t want to seem difficult.”

I used to think not rising meant growth. Now I wonder if it was a slow erasure. Burying what needs a voice is a disappearing of my instinct, voice, and self-worth. Some things are meant to be said, even if they make the room uncomfortable. Some things are worth rising for.

And yes—”don’t rise it” might make your English teacher twitch. But soul doesn’t do grammar; she does gut instinct. I didn’t argue.

“Stubborning”

Not a real word. But it should be. 

Stubborning is what I call the act of staying when you know it’s time to go. Of mistaking resistance for loyalty. Of gripping onto people that no longer make you feel safe or seen. Of clinging to dynamics that continually fracture me, hoping that endurance might turn pain into progress.

I stayed. Because I thought staying was loving harder. But I’ve learned—real love doesn’t ask you to vanish yourself. Real love doesn’t make you prove your value by enduring neglect.

So why did I stay?

I kept calling it patience. I kept calling it maturity, but deep down, it was fear. Fear of what leaving might mean. 

A lost identity. 

Eventually, the messages stopped begin subtle. 

The dreams were louder. My body became restless. My nervous system got tighter. 

And one night, I had a dream I can’t forget.

I was hiding behind a paper door. 

Outside: chaos.

Inside: silence.

Someone approached—maybe a friend, maybe a stranger. They laughed. Not at the danger… At me. At the fact that I believed I ever needed protection.

It was cruel clarity, but it landed. 

I woke up—not just from sleep, but from my own self-denial.

The Truth:

I had outgrown something. Not because I was better than it, but because my nervous system knew I deserved better.

I’ve spent too many years explaining why I stayed in places that no longer served me. But I don’t need a dramatic ending to give myself permission. I don’t need conflict to prove that I was right to leave. Sometimes, it’s enough to feel off. 

But soul doesn’t always scream. Sometimes she sends you weird dreams. Sometimes she gets quiet so you can hear yourself. And sometimes, she just says:

“Go.“

Not in anger. Not in shame. Just clarity. A soft nudge toward something freer. Something real.

What I’ve Learned