I Was Wrong

If you've been with me since 2020 and before, you know I wasn't speaking from theory. I was speaking from knowledge, experience, and gnosis—the knowing of the heart. The place in us that recognizes truth long before the mind, the experts, or the crowd gives us permission to know it.

And I trusted that knowing.

Apparently, that was the problem.

And for it I was slandered, attacked, and ostracized from the village. Flying monkeys and the sort.

So yeah, there is a part of me that wants to stand here and say, “I told you so.”

A great big, unapologetic, fuck you, I told you so.

But I won't.

Because this isn't really about being right.

It's about realizing I was wrong.

Not wrong about what I believed.

Wrong about the people around me.

For years, I thought I lived in a town that could see through illusion. A place where people questioned authority. Where organic wasn't just food, but practically a philosophy of organic or die.

Farm-to-table. Natural medicine. Organic handcrafted skin care. Healers and so-called Mystics and Goddesses. Music, Meditation & Mushrooms. White linen. Bare feet. Manifestation.

All of it.

I thought somewhere underneath all of that spirituality was gnosis.

I thought there was an actual knowing.

I thought people understood how to think for themselves—and, more importantly, how to know for themselves.

I thought they had a deeper understanding of the body.

I thought they understood that the body has an intelligence of its own.

I thought they understood that what we were told about viruses deserved to be questioned.

I thought they understood those white lines in the sky were chemtrails.

I thought they understood that Western medicine has never truly had our best interests at heart.

I thought I was living among people who questioned everything.

People whose intuition was dialed in enough to see through propaganda.

People who would rather risk being wrong than surrender their own discernment.

People who understood that the knowing of the heart does not require permission from the crowd.

Jiddu Krishnamurti would be ashamed of them all.

And I was wrong.

Not because everyone had to agree with me.

I was wrong because I believed we could still ask difficult questions.

I believed we could disagree without slander, flying monkeys, and exile.

I believed curiosity still mattered.

I believed a town that spoke endlessly—ad nauseam—about consciousness, intuition, awakening, and living from the heart would recognize manipulation when it appeared.

Maybe I was wrong about that too.

Maybe some of them weren't simply fooled by the manipulation. Maybe they had become participants in it—gatekeepers of the acceptable truth, enforcers of the approved narrative, perfectly willing to shame, slander, silence, and exile anyone who stepped outside it. All while speaking the language of consciousness, compassion, and awakening.

And perhaps that's the part that still gets me.

They didn't abandon the language. They used the language while doing the very thing the language was supposed to have awakened them beyond.

And so, I was exiled.

I was shamed, slandered and silenced.

I was refused a seat at the table.

Not because I didn't have something to say.

But because what I had to say wasn't welcome at the table.

And perhaps because a woman who trusts her own knowing is a hell of a lot harder to manage than one who needs someone else to tell her what is true.

I watched fear become stronger than discernment.

I watched people who spoke endlessly about sovereignty, freedom and creativity, hand their knowing over to authority.

I watched the emotional intelligence of the soul they claimed to live from disappear precisely when it was most needed.

That was the heartbreak.

I've had my heart shattered before. I've picked up the pieces more than once.

But this was different.

This wasn't the loss of a relationship.

It was the loss of an illusion.

The illusion that I was surrounded by people who were awake enough, aware enough, hungry enough for what is true—and strong enough in their own being—to question.

People courageous enough to doubt.

People grounded enough to trust their own inner knowing.

People who understood that gnosis isn't something you put on an altar, talk about over organic coffee, or drape in white linen.

You have to fucking live it.

And sometimes living it costs you your seat at the table.

So yes, I question them now.

I question them.

I question the experts they put forward.

I question the people who claimed authority while shutting questions out of the room.

Maybe the hardest lesson wasn't discovering who they were down deep.

Maybe it was discovering that I had imagined them to be someone they weren't.

Because that is what I do.

I look for the best in people.

Perhaps I saw depth where there was performance.

Perhaps I saw courage where there was conformity.

Perhaps I mistook the language of awakening for awakening itself.

I don't need to say, “I was right.”

The deeper truth is this:

I was wrong.

I expected more.

 

Life’s rough. Get a helmet.

I think I need a shovel to go with my machete.

Narayan