Tend your Garbage Pile

There’s a strange alchemy we rarely talk about—the miracle-making power of garbage.

Not just the kitchen scraps and plastic rings kind, but the heavy, haunted kind: the trauma-baggage you thought you’d already dropped, the silent tolerances you’ve normalized, the inner negotiations with smallness. If you’ve been feeling the weight of your own discarded selves lately, maybe it’s because you’re standing too close to the fire of your own becoming.

And maybe that’s exactly where you need to be.

The Bonfire of Who You’re Not

If becoming your future self feels difficult, good. It’s working.

The story you’ve been living was never designed to take you where you're going. It was scaffolding. Survival. Social performance. But real becoming? That requires demolition. Reclamation. And, yes, ritual incineration of everything you’ve quietly tolerated.

Tolerance is not nobility. It’s often self-abandonment in costume. We praise our ability to endure misalignment, dismiss discomfort, and stay in the loop of old identities. But the truth is, much of what we call “normal” is simply what we’ve been too afraid to challenge.

That’s why becoming isn’t pretty. It’s not the glamorous unveiling of some well-polished personal brand. It’s the moment you realize your greatest miracles will rise from your most rotting piles of unprocessed grief, shame, fear, and unworthiness.

Garbage = Miracle Fuel

This week, a sacred digital circle gathered to tell the truth—the real truth—about the garbage we carry and the glory that follows its release. Some offered up emotional manipulation, others brought old love stories rewritten in transactional scripts, and still others laid bare the spiritual fatigue of being chronically misunderstood.

But no matter the shape of the offering, one theme kept blazing through: the greater the pile, the more potent the miracle.

It’s not a metaphor. It’s a practice.

You take the stories, those suffocating myths you swallowed as truth and you hurl them into the fire. You speak them aloud. You cry them into visibility. You confront the subtle ways they still script your present. And then… you dare to name a new story.

Not someday. Now.

The Price of the Dream Is the Death of the Old Self

There’s a cost to dreaming boldly. Not in dollars. In identities.

The moment you name your vision—truly name it—you call forth every outdated version of yourself that must be sacrificed. The tolerant self. The masked self. The self who quietly accommodates conditions that violate her worth.

We are not dreaming to escape. We are dreaming to excavate.

Every big vision demands you step into the gall of being too much: too certain, too radiant, too free. And if that dream doesn’t come with discomfort, confrontation, and holy fire, it’s probably still playing it safe.

So, ask yourself: What garbage do I need to bring to the fire?

What illusions of worth, distorted loves, or warped loyalties have I confused for reality?

What outdated self am I still tolerating?

Nonchalance and the God Game

One participant said they were learning to be nonchalant about things they once obsessed over. Not indifferent but non-attached. Nonchalance, here, is reverence in disguise. It's the exhale after you've sacrificed the lie that your worth is measured by hustle or perfection.

It’s the willingness to leave space in your vision, not because you doubt it, but because you know the divine needs room to move. You don’t micromanage a miracle. You get clear on the container and you trust the fire.

And when your garbage burns hot enough, when your tolerance has been fully sacrificed, when your “no” becomes as sacred as your “yes” that’s when the impossible walks in wearing your future self’s clothes.

Rewriting the Story

The world doesn’t change when you discover your dream. It changes when you start living like it’s already real. That’s the real miracle: not that circumstances shift, but that you do. You stop tolerating misalignment. You stop negotiating with fear. You stop hiding your sacred fire.

And in the ash of what you used to believe, something ancient and holy rises.

Your real story.

The one you write in devotion.

The one you burn for.

The one that burns back until all that’s left is the truth of who you’ve always been.

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Postscript for the Brave

There’s a place where this kind of fire is welcomed. Where garbage is sacred and becoming is a daily ritual. You’ll know when you’re ready, because you’ll be tired of tolerating anything less than your full power.

Until then, stoke your fire. And when the story is ready to change—burn it beautifully.