Awake, But Not Steady

When I ended my last essay with the words, “Now—I belong to no one but the Spiral,” I imagined

something steady.

Something sovereign.

Something solid beneath my feet.

But the truth is, I wrote that sentence with shaking hands.

My chest was tight.

My jaw was clenched.

My body did not feel liberated.

Because belonging to the Spiral does not feel like freedom most days.

It feels like exposure.

It feels like watching yourself in real time and realizing you still flinch when someone challenges you.

Still crave reassurance.

Still feel the old urge to be the “good one.”

The agreeable one.

The enlightened one.

Awareness did not dissolve my conditioning.

It made it visible.

And visibility is uncomfortable.

I thought once I saw white supremacy culture clearly—once I could name perfectionism,

defensiveness, urgency, fear of conflict—that I would somehow rise above it.

Instead, I started seeing it in my body.

In the way my heart races when a conversation shifts tone.

In the pit that opens in my stomach when conflict rises.

In the way my hands begin to shake even if my voice sounds calm.

Sometimes what I call “communication” in my marriage is actually control dressed up as vulnerability.

There are nights when tension builds and my nervous system locks onto one goal: resolve this now.

My husband might still be activated.

Still processing.

Still trying to come down in his own way.

And I feel urgency flood my body.

Not just to talk.

To fix.

Photo by Stas Knop

To land somewhere stable.

I start explaining carefully.

Choosing my words with precision.

Trying to be understood.

I tell myself I am fighting for connection.

But underneath it, I am fighting panic.

Sometimes my urgency for resolution isn’t about mutual understanding.

It’s about soothing the fear that something is slipping out of my control.

White supremacy culture taught me that safety comes from managing outcomes.

From restoring order quickly.

From being perceived as reasonable, regulated, right.

So when I push for clarity, when I press for immediate resolution, when I insist on being heard right

now—sometimes I am not dismantling domination culture.

I am reenacting it.

That realization humbles me more than any theory ever could.

It doesn’t stop at marriage.

I see it in activist spaces too.

There are moments I want to be seen as “far along.”

As self-aware.

As someone who has done the work.

And when I receive feedback—even gentle feedback—I feel heat rise in my face.

A flicker of shame.

A quiet panic at being exposed.

White supremacy culture loves hierarchy.

Even in liberation spaces.

Especially in liberation spaces.

I don’t want to admit that I sometimes measure myself against others.

But if I’m honest, I do.

And that measurement is the system whispering again.

The scariest place I see it is in motherhood.

The other morning, my daughter was overwhelmed before school.

Tears. Frustration. Big feelings.

And I felt the reflex rise in me—

“Calm down.”

“Let’s fix this.”

“Why is this such a big deal?”

Not because I don’t love her.

But because dysregulation makes me anxious.

Because part of me still believes good families are composed, contained, controlled.

She doesn’t need a perfect mother.

She needs a regulated one.

She needs a mother who can kneel down, breathe, and say, “It’s okay to feel this.”

I cannot pass down perfection as protection.

I cannot teach her that being “good” is safer than being honest.

If I do, the cycle continues—just with softer language.

Belonging to the Spiral, I’m learning, is not a declaration of arrival.

It is a commitment to return.

Return to my body.

Return to humility.

Return to repair.

Return to curiosity when shame rises.

I am awake.

But I am not steady.

And maybe steadiness isn’t the goal.

Maybe the goal is willingness.

Willingness to see myself clearly.

Willingness to name the control hiding inside vulnerability.

Willingness to let love be mutual instead of managed.

Awareness did not make me better.

It made me responsible.

And responsibility is heavier—and holier—than certainty.

I don’t belong to the Spiral because I am finished.

I belong because I am willing to keep returning.