There was no blueprint. No grand plan. Not even a conscious decision. The fire came from somewhere deep and early—before language, before mentors, before books. Erin looked around as a child and instinctively knew something was wrong. Not just morally wrong—illogical. She questioned why a loving God would create people designed to fail. Why pain and cruelty were part of nature. Why suffering was the norm in a world supposedly created by love.
She didn’t have the words for it yet. But there was always that inner sense of this is fucked up.
Then came the mentor—the horse lady—who offered structure, possibility, and belonging. The fire had already been lit, but now it had direction. Horses. Books. Thinking. Seeing. Asking. Always asking.
This wasn’t rebellion. This was clarity. This was a soul not content to swallow lies. Not content to comply just because others did. The fire was born of injustice and stoked by curiosity. Even before Erin knew what to do with it, it was already burning.
So when others ask, "How did you get out?" they assume there was a map. A rescue. A turning point. But the truth is—she was always leaving.
The fire is the origin story.
No comments:
Post a Comment