You Were the Spring All Along
You hand someone an answer.
Not a guess. The real thing — the one that took years of living to know. You say it plainly, like it’s nothing, because to you it is nothing now. It’s just how you see.
And then you watch it travel.
It leaves your hands. It goes up the hall, up the chain, into a room you’re not standing in. And when it lands, it lands in someone else’s mouth. Same words. Different voice. And the nods happen around *them.*
There’s an old sting that wants to rise here. I know the one. It says: *that was mine. Say my name. Let them know it came from me.*
Sit with that sting for a second. Don’t push it away. Just notice what it’s actually reaching for.
It’s reaching outside of you for proof that you’re worth something. It’s gone looking in the room for what only lives in you.
Here’s the turn.
The answer didn’t come from the credit. The credit came *after.* Late, sometimes never. The answer came from you — from the way you’ve learned to see — and that spring is still running. It didn’t empty when someone else carried a cup of it into a meeting. You can’t be drained of the thing you *are.* You’re not the cup. You’re the spring.
This is the Solar Plexus knowing. The warm center that says *I am* without waiting for the room to agree. When that center is lit, recognition is lovely but it’s not food. You already ate. The worth was never out there waiting to be handed back to you with your name stapled on. It was the source. It was you.
So the jar fills.
It fills when they speak your name and it fills when they forget to. It fills when the answer comes home credited and it fills when it comes home wearing a stranger’s coat. The flow was never plugged into applause. It was plugged into *you,* and you’re not going anywhere.
And — because this is a year for the harvest to actually land — hold both of these at once:
*I prosper whether or not they name me.*
*And I am more and more seen as the source I have always been.*
The first one frees you from the sting. The second one lets the fruit fall into your own hands. You don’t have to choose. Release the resentment and still let yourself be known. Both. Always both.
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Chakramation
*I am the spring, not the cup. Spoken or unspoken, my jar overflows. I am the source — and I am seen.*
