The Cost of Fullness
Ascent 3 • Amina Farah
Theme: Choosing truth over ease; reclaiming openness without pursuit; holding hope without shrinking fullness.
Core Conflict: How to remain open without becoming exposed; how to endure the distance between giving truth and receiving love.
The late afternoon sun angled low across the mountain, casting long shadows that stretched like questions.
The grove held its hush, but the stillness wasn’t soft—it had weight.
The silence that comes before a choice must be made.
Amina entered slower this time, not from hesitation, but from thought.
Her eyes scanned the horizon like someone who had learned to look beyond the obvious—who no longer mistook warmth for welcome, or invitation for understanding.
She wore no new garment, no outer mark of change.
But something in her gait—measured, unyielding—spoke of a woman who had chosen not to be shaped by others’ mirrors.
And yet, she looked tired. Not fragile, but weathered. Like steel drawn too many times through fire.
She carried no book today. Only herself.
When she reached the edge of the clearing, she didn’t wait for the wind to speak.
She stood in the full light and offered her truth plainly.
The grove held its hush, but the stillness wasn’t soft—it had weight.
The silence that comes before a choice must be made.
Amina entered slower this time, not from hesitation, but from thought.
Her eyes scanned the horizon like someone who had learned to look beyond the obvious—who no longer mistook warmth for welcome, or invitation for understanding.
She wore no new garment, no outer mark of change.
But something in her gait—measured, unyielding—spoke of a woman who had chosen not to be shaped by others’ mirrors.
And yet, she looked tired. Not fragile, but weathered. Like steel drawn too many times through fire.
She carried no book today. Only herself.
When she reached the edge of the clearing, she didn’t wait for the wind to speak.
She stood in the full light and offered her truth plainly.
Amina:
They say they want me whole.
But when I speak in full voice, the room stiffens.
They say I’m family.
But when I challenge the terms, the warmth cools.
I’ve begun telling the truth as I see it—calm, careful, clean.
Not angry. Not grand. Just… honest.
And still, I watch people close doors with polite smiles.
This is harder than I expected.
To be real is to be misunderstood.
To be whole is to be inconvenient.
I thought reclaiming my truth would feel like homecoming.
Instead, it feels like exile.
Tell me…
How do I stay open
when even love seems to want the easier version of me?
But when I speak in full voice, the room stiffens.
They say I’m family.
But when I challenge the terms, the warmth cools.
I’ve begun telling the truth as I see it—calm, careful, clean.
Not angry. Not grand. Just… honest.
And still, I watch people close doors with polite smiles.
This is harder than I expected.
To be real is to be misunderstood.
To be whole is to be inconvenient.
I thought reclaiming my truth would feel like homecoming.
Instead, it feels like exile.
Tell me…
How do I stay open
when even love seems to want the easier version of me?
Oracle:
Love isn't afraid of the truth—they're just not as full of it as they like to appear.
You can stay open to their love, which includes reconciliation around the truth.
It's fear that closes the door. Fear of one’s own hunger.
If they close their door, keep yours open.
This is the cost of invitation, of growth and becoming.
Openness is not the same as pursuit.
You can be open without diminishing yourself for acceptance.
You can stay open to their love, which includes reconciliation around the truth.
It's fear that closes the door. Fear of one’s own hunger.
If they close their door, keep yours open.
This is the cost of invitation, of growth and becoming.
Openness is not the same as pursuit.
You can be open without diminishing yourself for acceptance.
Amina:
Openness is not the same as pursuit.
That’s what I’ve been doing, isn’t it?
Chasing every closing door like it’s my responsibility to reopen it.
Shrinking my fullness so I can slip through the crack before it shuts completely.
Not because I don’t know who I am…
But because I still ache to be received.
You’re right.
It isn’t their love that’s absent. It’s their readiness.
They say they want my truth…
But only the parts that don’t touch their hunger.
Only what doesn’t ask them to grow.
And maybe that’s not mine to fix.
I can keep my door open.
Not as performance. Not as a plea.
But as a witness.
So when they’re ready to come closer—
When they’re brave enough to sit in the heat of real connection—
They’ll know where to find me.
But tell me this…
How do I endure the space between the offering and the return?
How do I carry this much openness
without bleeding?
That’s what I’ve been doing, isn’t it?
Chasing every closing door like it’s my responsibility to reopen it.
Shrinking my fullness so I can slip through the crack before it shuts completely.
Not because I don’t know who I am…
But because I still ache to be received.
You’re right.
It isn’t their love that’s absent. It’s their readiness.
They say they want my truth…
But only the parts that don’t touch their hunger.
Only what doesn’t ask them to grow.
And maybe that’s not mine to fix.
I can keep my door open.
Not as performance. Not as a plea.
But as a witness.
So when they’re ready to come closer—
When they’re brave enough to sit in the heat of real connection—
They’ll know where to find me.
But tell me this…
How do I endure the space between the offering and the return?
How do I carry this much openness
without bleeding?
Oracle:
By connecting to the joy of anticipation—hope.
By finding others who are ready,
not holding on to making everyone ready all at once.
By finding others who are ready,
not holding on to making everyone ready all at once.
Amina:
The joy of anticipation…
I had forgotten that hope could be light.
That it didn’t have to be heavy, like expectation.
That I could long without losing.
Maybe I’ve been mistaking openness for exposure—
Thinking it meant standing raw in the wind,
waiting for someone to shield me.
But this… this feels different.
Hope as warmth.
Openness as rooted.
Invitation without demand.
There are others.
I’ve met them in moments. Quiet ones. Real ones.
Maybe not always loud or obvious—but present.
Maybe this is the work now…
Not to convert, but to connect.
I can endure the space between
if I remember I’m not waiting in silence.
I’m building something.
And one day, the right ones will walk through the door I left open.
I had forgotten that hope could be light.
That it didn’t have to be heavy, like expectation.
That I could long without losing.
Maybe I’ve been mistaking openness for exposure—
Thinking it meant standing raw in the wind,
waiting for someone to shield me.
But this… this feels different.
Hope as warmth.
Openness as rooted.
Invitation without demand.
There are others.
I’ve met them in moments. Quiet ones. Real ones.
Maybe not always loud or obvious—but present.
Maybe this is the work now…
Not to convert, but to connect.
I can endure the space between
if I remember I’m not waiting in silence.
I’m building something.
And one day, the right ones will walk through the door I left open.
Amina initiates her descent.
She has not closed herself to the world—only stopped folding herself to fit inside it.
Hope now lives not as a wager, but as warmth.
She is building a space where truth and love can meet—on equal ground.
She has not closed herself to the world—only stopped folding herself to fit inside it.
Hope now lives not as a wager, but as warmth.
She is building a space where truth and love can meet—on equal ground.