So here we are—Day 3.
If you’ve made it this far, you already know the theme.
The rubble.
The aftermath.
The uncomfortable honesty of being in-between who you were and who you’re trying to become.

But this one… this one’s about the moment you stop pretending.

Because at some point—after the shock wears off, after the adrenaline runs out—your gonna look around and realize you can’t sweep this mess under the rug anymore.
These cracks aren’t cosmetic.
These walls really did fall.
And there’s no fast-forward button that skips you to the rebuild.

This is where most people either break down…
or break open.

And lately I’ve been learning that there’s a difference.

Breaking down?
That’s collapse. Its hiding and not coming out. Its you avoiding in an attempt to save yourself
Breaking open?
That is possibility—painful, raw, inconvenient possibility—but still possibility.

I used to think healing was some kind of heroic montage—
like once you decide to “fix your life,” the universe lines up behind you.
But nah.
It’s more like your old habits and your new intentions get into a fistfight every morning.
And every day you choose who wins.

Day 3 is where I admit this:
I don’t have all the answers.
I barely have half the questions.
But I’ve stopped pretending everything is fine.
I’ve stopped trying to rebuild the exact structure that collapsed.
And I’ve started sifting through that rubble with intention instead of panic.

I’m finding pieces worth keeping—
stuff I forgot I had.
Patience.
Self-respect.
The ability to stand still without crumbling.
And yeah, some sharp edges too—things I need to let go of, even if they cut a little on the way out.

And maybe that’s the whole point of this stage.
Not the comeback.
Not the victory lap.
Just the honesty.
The sorting.
The inner rerouting.
The quiet decision to stop living on autopilot and start rebuilding on purpose.

So if you’re here with me in your own rubble—
if life pulled the rug out, or you burned it all down, or something you trusted finally showed its fault line—
just know this:

You’re not behind.
You’re not lost.
You’re not broken beyond repair.

You’re breaking open.

And that’s the first real sign that a new foundation is coming.

Day 4?
We’ll talk about the first brick.
But for now…
stand with me in this moment.
We’re learning how to see clearly again.

Hey again.
If you’re back here, it means you survived the night you thought would finish you.
It means you’re still standing—maybe bruised, maybe exhausted, maybe confused—but standing all the same.

So this time, I want to talk about what comes after the collapse.
After the shock.
After the silence.
After that moment when you finally stop asking, “Why did this happen?”
and start whispering, “Okay… what now?”

See, no one prepares you for the awkwardness of beginning again.
Nobody talks about how rebuilding isn’t some cinematic montage with inspirational music and perfect lighting.

No.
It’s clumsy.
It’s slow.
It’s lonely sometimes.
It’s waking up with a small spark of hope… and losing it again by noon.
It’s taking two steps and falling on the third.
It’s doubting yourself every thirty minutes.

But here’s what you need to hear:

Rising isn’t about doing it right.
It’s about doing it at all.

Some days you’ll make progress.
Some days you’ll just make it through.
Both count.

Because after everything you’ve lost, your strength won’t look like power—it’ll look like persistence.
Like showing up when nothing feels stable.
Like refusing to shut down even when shutting down would be easier.

And slowly—almost quietly—you begin to notice things shift.

You find one tiny thing you can control.
Then another.
You fix one thought.
You try one new habit.
You reach out to one person.
You take one risk.

This is what rising actually is.
Not some explosive comeback—
but a collection of small, stubborn choices that say:

“I’m still here.
I’m still trying.
I’m not done yet.”

And listen…
you don’t have to build the life you had before.
You’re allowed to build something completely different.
Something lighter.
Something truer.
Something that actually fits the person you became in the breaking.

So if you’re standing in the rubble today—
but you’re ready to lift your head,
wipe the dust from your face,
and take that first step out of the ruins—

then hear this:

You are not rebuilding the old you.
You are meeting the new you.
And that version?
They were worth every tear it took to reach them.

You’re not just surviving anymore.
You’re starting.

And starting is everything.