I didn’t start this because I know the truth.
I started it because I feel there is truth — and that it can be found.
Not handed down.
Not enforced.
Not feared into submission.
Found.
I suspect there are others like me. People who carry a sense of something real beneath the noise, but who don’t yet have language for it. People who were taught that fear was necessary — that fear kept us safe, obedient, clean. But fear has always felt wrong to me. Fear constricts. Fear controls. Fear demands silence.
Truth doesn’t do that.
I’ve stripped everything back as far as I can, and there is only one thing I know for certain:
I have a moral compass.
It isn’t loud. It doesn’t argue. It doesn’t threaten.
But when I listen to it, things tend to align. When I ignore it, they fall apart.
This compass doesn’t tell me what to believe.
It tells me how to move.
It knows when something is right.
It knows when something is wrong.
It knows when I’m acting from fear instead of honesty.
I don’t think truth requires terror. I don’t think it needs coercion. I don’t think it hides behind shame. I think truth is quieter than that — and stronger.
So this is not a declaration of answers.
It’s a commitment to listening.
To noticing.
To paying attention when something inside me says, this way.
If you’re here because you feel something similar — a pull you can’t explain, a knowing you can’t yet name — then you’re not alone.
I don’t know where this leads.
But I trust the act of listening.
For now, that’s enough.
— a Veilkin