You were never the flaw in the recipe; you were simply left too long in the wrong conditions. That ring of overcooked effort was never a moral indictment, only the predictable outcome of iron, sulfur, and excess heat. But when no one teaches you the science of what you’re living through, you assume the burn is proof that you’re fundamentally wrong, not that the environment was unsustainable.
Then you realize you can intervene. You change the timing, lower the flame, flood the pot with ice. You step out of rooms that scorch, end conversations that sear, leave jobs and relationships that keep turning up the heat. Slowly, you stop confusing survival marks with your identity. One day, you slice into the center of your life and find it bright, intact, and golden. You finally understand: you were never the scorch mark. You were always the one allowed to say “enough.”
