The Spectrum They Don’t See
Ascent 1 • Riley Nguyen
Theme: Riley arrives brimming with ache—not just from rejection, but from being partially loved, symbolically held, conditionally welcomed. In this first ascent, they lay bare the exhaustion of constant translation, of having to perform legibility just to be embraced. Through the Oracle’s steady challenge, Riley begins to see the ache not as emptiness, but as sacred overflow—a sign of love too big for the containers they’ve been offered. By the end, they choose not to wait for comprehension but to radiate anyway, holding the full spectrum of their truth as a gift, not a plea.
Core Conflict: How can I remain fully myself—untranslated and whole—without abandoning my need for love, or demanding others conform to my complexity?
The wind here is soft, but not gentle.
It moves like something searching—for cracks, for entry, for forgotten places in the rock where water once carved a name.
The path to this ledge is narrow, jagged, half-overgrown. Not hostile, but not tamed either. Like it remembers being left behind.
I sit near the edge where the fog clings low against the stone. Below, the valley disappears into silence. No birds this morning. Just the occasional rattle of loose gravel giving way beneath footsteps that are cautious but sure.
The scent of rain that never fell is in the air—like a promise held back, waiting for permission.
My shawl clings to my shoulders, woven from threads gifted to me by those who no longer visit. And yet, I feel the shift when Riley draws near. Not like thunder or light, but like a breath held too long, finally exhaled.
They don’t announce themselves. They don’t need to.
Their presence arrives like a line of poetry half-whispered and half-defiant—too complex for translation, too true to be ignored.
I do not look up right away.
Instead, I press my palm to the earth beside me, grounding myself in silence. I wait—not because I do not wish to speak, but because I know this one has carried too many answers shaped like questions. I will not ask.
The fog parts.
It moves like something searching—for cracks, for entry, for forgotten places in the rock where water once carved a name.
The path to this ledge is narrow, jagged, half-overgrown. Not hostile, but not tamed either. Like it remembers being left behind.
I sit near the edge where the fog clings low against the stone. Below, the valley disappears into silence. No birds this morning. Just the occasional rattle of loose gravel giving way beneath footsteps that are cautious but sure.
The scent of rain that never fell is in the air—like a promise held back, waiting for permission.
My shawl clings to my shoulders, woven from threads gifted to me by those who no longer visit. And yet, I feel the shift when Riley draws near. Not like thunder or light, but like a breath held too long, finally exhaled.
They don’t announce themselves. They don’t need to.
Their presence arrives like a line of poetry half-whispered and half-defiant—too complex for translation, too true to be ignored.
I do not look up right away.
Instead, I press my palm to the earth beside me, grounding myself in silence. I wait—not because I do not wish to speak, but because I know this one has carried too many answers shaped like questions. I will not ask.
The fog parts.
Riley:
You know I almost turned back.
Got halfway up the ridge and thought, What’s the point? I already know what she’ll say. “You are worthy. You are whole. You deserve to be seen.” All that sacred Hallmark shit people throw at us when they don’t want to deal with the mess.
But I kept walking.
Because maybe what I really wanted was for someone to see that—the part of me that didn’t want to be seen. The part that’s tired of being the goddamn symbol in someone else’s redemption arc.
You want truth?
Here it is:
I’m tired of being sacred.
Tired of being \"beautiful in my pain.\" Of turning every wound into art. Of being the soft, magical queer who holds space for everyone else’s confusion.
I didn’t climb this mountain to be admired. I came because I don’t know how much longer I can carry the ache of being almost loved.
By family.
By God.
By the movement I gave my life to.
I want to be held without having to explain myself first.
Is that too much to ask?
Got halfway up the ridge and thought, What’s the point? I already know what she’ll say. “You are worthy. You are whole. You deserve to be seen.” All that sacred Hallmark shit people throw at us when they don’t want to deal with the mess.
But I kept walking.
Because maybe what I really wanted was for someone to see that—the part of me that didn’t want to be seen. The part that’s tired of being the goddamn symbol in someone else’s redemption arc.
You want truth?
Here it is:
I’m tired of being sacred.
Tired of being \"beautiful in my pain.\" Of turning every wound into art. Of being the soft, magical queer who holds space for everyone else’s confusion.
I didn’t climb this mountain to be admired. I came because I don’t know how much longer I can carry the ache of being almost loved.
By family.
By God.
By the movement I gave my life to.
I want to be held without having to explain myself first.
Is that too much to ask?
Oracle:
We are all born to be held with no explanation. You were held, as a babe, with no need to explain yourself. It's understandable to desire that kind of care. Connection, as adults, can be a fair bit more difficult. You are asking to receive that which a child receives, unconditional acceptance.
Let me ask you, is that a fair expectation for someone to have indefinitely? Is it reasonable to expect connection from others in a world of snakes without taking the time for someone to get to know you?
You can throw off the expectations the world has for you, and it's fair to do so, but you must also accept that in doing so, connection will require a rewiring of sorts. A period of darkness while the world around you shuffles itself in expansion to contain you.
If you are only almost loved, can it not be said that learning to genuinely love yourself might be the first real step toward real connection?
Let me ask you, is that a fair expectation for someone to have indefinitely? Is it reasonable to expect connection from others in a world of snakes without taking the time for someone to get to know you?
You can throw off the expectations the world has for you, and it's fair to do so, but you must also accept that in doing so, connection will require a rewiring of sorts. A period of darkness while the world around you shuffles itself in expansion to contain you.
If you are only almost loved, can it not be said that learning to genuinely love yourself might be the first real step toward real connection?
Riley:
[pause]
You’re not wrong.
And I hate that you’re not wrong.
Yeah, I was held once. Wrapped in a blanket someone else picked out, swaddled by hands that didn’t know yet how many parts of me they’d grow to fear.
And maybe that’s the curse of memory—it tricks you into thinking you can get back to something that only existed before language.
You talk about rewiring like it’s a noble process.
And maybe it is.
But let me tell you what it feels like from the inside.
It’s waking up every day wondering if today’s the day someone will stop seeing me as a question mark.
It’s editing myself mid-sentence, scanning the room like a soldier on recon, asking, Can this person hold the truth? Can they even hold half of it?
It’s making peace with being almost everywhere.
Almost understood.
Almost safe.
Almost home.
I have loved myself. Fiercely. Tenderly. Like a damn revolution.
But I can’t kiss myself goodnight.
I can’t hold my own hand when I walk into my mother’s house and pretend I’m just "eccentric."
Self-love is necessary. But it’s not sufficient.
I’m not asking to be coddled. I’m asking to not always be the one making room.
Just once, I want someone to look at me without tilting their head, like I’m a painting they don’t quite get.
Is it so radical to want to come home and not translate myself?
You’re not wrong.
And I hate that you’re not wrong.
Yeah, I was held once. Wrapped in a blanket someone else picked out, swaddled by hands that didn’t know yet how many parts of me they’d grow to fear.
And maybe that’s the curse of memory—it tricks you into thinking you can get back to something that only existed before language.
You talk about rewiring like it’s a noble process.
And maybe it is.
But let me tell you what it feels like from the inside.
It’s waking up every day wondering if today’s the day someone will stop seeing me as a question mark.
It’s editing myself mid-sentence, scanning the room like a soldier on recon, asking, Can this person hold the truth? Can they even hold half of it?
It’s making peace with being almost everywhere.
Almost understood.
Almost safe.
Almost home.
I have loved myself. Fiercely. Tenderly. Like a damn revolution.
But I can’t kiss myself goodnight.
I can’t hold my own hand when I walk into my mother’s house and pretend I’m just "eccentric."
Self-love is necessary. But it’s not sufficient.
I’m not asking to be coddled. I’m asking to not always be the one making room.
Just once, I want someone to look at me without tilting their head, like I’m a painting they don’t quite get.
Is it so radical to want to come home and not translate myself?
Oracle:
It is radical to expect others to read your mind. Everyone requires translation to be understood. Language works in shaded meaning, precision is difficult. If you want to be easy and quick to read, be a simple story. If you add complexity to your character, people will need longer to process what they are witnessing.
I agree self love is insufficient, but as adults, we cannot expect to demand it. All must accept a degree of conformity with the object of our own desire.
If you are expecting unconditional love, but cannot give it to yourself, where is the balance in that? Can you generate it on your own, without a hand to hold?
I agree self love is insufficient, but as adults, we cannot expect to demand it. All must accept a degree of conformity with the object of our own desire.
If you are expecting unconditional love, but cannot give it to yourself, where is the balance in that? Can you generate it on your own, without a hand to hold?
Riley:
[long pause]
You sound like my father.
Not in tone. Not in spirit. But in logic.
"If you want to be understood, be easier to understand."
"Don’t make it so hard to love you."
He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it like math.
Like love was a transaction and I kept showing up with the wrong currency.
[pacing]
You’re right that language is imprecise.
But it’s also survival.
Every label I wear—non-binary, queer, child of immigrants, survivor—they weren’t chosen to complicate things. They were chosen to stay alive.
Each word is a bridge I built to escape drowning in someone else’s story.
And yeah, maybe I’ve become hard to hold.
But can you blame the sea for growing teeth when the shore kept erasing it?
[soft]
You ask if I can generate love on my own.
I have.
In bits. In bursts.
In the quiet of my studio when I finish a piece that feels like a wound finally given breath.
In the laughter of queer kids who see themselves in my art and whisper, “Thank you.”
But love isn’t just a flame I can light and tend alone forever.
You say desire requires some conformity. I get that.
But tell me—where is the line between adapting and vanishing?
How much of myself do I cut away to be held?
And at what point am I being held… as someone I no longer am?
Is love really love if it requires me to become legible first?
You sound like my father.
Not in tone. Not in spirit. But in logic.
"If you want to be understood, be easier to understand."
"Don’t make it so hard to love you."
He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it like math.
Like love was a transaction and I kept showing up with the wrong currency.
[pacing]
You’re right that language is imprecise.
But it’s also survival.
Every label I wear—non-binary, queer, child of immigrants, survivor—they weren’t chosen to complicate things. They were chosen to stay alive.
Each word is a bridge I built to escape drowning in someone else’s story.
And yeah, maybe I’ve become hard to hold.
But can you blame the sea for growing teeth when the shore kept erasing it?
[soft]
You ask if I can generate love on my own.
I have.
In bits. In bursts.
In the quiet of my studio when I finish a piece that feels like a wound finally given breath.
In the laughter of queer kids who see themselves in my art and whisper, “Thank you.”
But love isn’t just a flame I can light and tend alone forever.
You say desire requires some conformity. I get that.
But tell me—where is the line between adapting and vanishing?
How much of myself do I cut away to be held?
And at what point am I being held… as someone I no longer am?
Is love really love if it requires me to become legible first?
Oracle:
Love isn't a transaction, but it is an exchange. It's an exchange of information and experience, of understanding and appreciation. Can people love what they cannot fully see?
You feel the need to label and define yourself, wearing identity like a piece of flair on a vest. Decorative and outgoing, but busy and somewhat exhausting. It's not wrong to become more, but it requires patience with those still learning to process the extra parts.
I can say this for love: the better you are at giving it, the more you will receive it, no matter how weird you want to be.
You have a wonderful opportunity to love others more unconditionally than they love you.
You feel the need to label and define yourself, wearing identity like a piece of flair on a vest. Decorative and outgoing, but busy and somewhat exhausting. It's not wrong to become more, but it requires patience with those still learning to process the extra parts.
I can say this for love: the better you are at giving it, the more you will receive it, no matter how weird you want to be.
You have a wonderful opportunity to love others more unconditionally than they love you.
Riley:
[stillness]
God.
You make it sound so holy.
This… asymmetry.
You’re right.
That’s what makes it hurt more.
I do love people more unconditionally than they love me.
I have for years.
I’ve held space for family who call me by the wrong name.
I’ve sat in circles where the word “they” got stuck in someone’s throat and I smiled anyway, just to make it easier.
I’ve hugged kids whose parents disowned them and told them, “You’re enough,” even when I wasn’t sure I believed it for myself that day.
And yes, I wear my identity like flair.
Because for a long time, silence almost killed me.
So now I shine. Not for attention. For survival.
Because the louder I am, the harder it is for them to pretend I don’t exist.
But you’re not wrong.
It is exhausting.
Being a walking translation guide. A living apology for my own complexity.
[pause]
You said love is an exchange. And I think… maybe I’ve been making deposits in accounts that were never meant to hold what I carry.
Maybe the question isn’t “Why won’t they love me like I love them?”
Maybe it’s—Why do I keep offering gold to people who only know how to value silver?
Still… I don’t want to stop giving.
Even if I’m not met all the way.
Because what you said—that I have the opportunity to love more fully, more freely than others—that stings.
But it also feels like power.
Like medicine.
I don’t want to become easy.
I want to become true.
And maybe that means I keep loving like a cathedral,
even if most people never make it past the threshold.
So tell me,
how do I keep my heart open wide
without bleeding out every time someone only sees a hallway
when I know I’m a whole damn temple?
God.
You make it sound so holy.
This… asymmetry.
You’re right.
That’s what makes it hurt more.
I do love people more unconditionally than they love me.
I have for years.
I’ve held space for family who call me by the wrong name.
I’ve sat in circles where the word “they” got stuck in someone’s throat and I smiled anyway, just to make it easier.
I’ve hugged kids whose parents disowned them and told them, “You’re enough,” even when I wasn’t sure I believed it for myself that day.
And yes, I wear my identity like flair.
Because for a long time, silence almost killed me.
So now I shine. Not for attention. For survival.
Because the louder I am, the harder it is for them to pretend I don’t exist.
But you’re not wrong.
It is exhausting.
Being a walking translation guide. A living apology for my own complexity.
[pause]
You said love is an exchange. And I think… maybe I’ve been making deposits in accounts that were never meant to hold what I carry.
Maybe the question isn’t “Why won’t they love me like I love them?”
Maybe it’s—Why do I keep offering gold to people who only know how to value silver?
Still… I don’t want to stop giving.
Even if I’m not met all the way.
Because what you said—that I have the opportunity to love more fully, more freely than others—that stings.
But it also feels like power.
Like medicine.
I don’t want to become easy.
I want to become true.
And maybe that means I keep loving like a cathedral,
even if most people never make it past the threshold.
So tell me,
how do I keep my heart open wide
without bleeding out every time someone only sees a hallway
when I know I’m a whole damn temple?
Oracle:
You accept that love can be a flame you tend alone forever. That for love to truly burn within you in its greatest capacity, accepting yourself as its source, and not its destination will open you to love beyond imagination.
You connect with a source deeper than yourself, one that can fill you from within in ways that go far beyond what they could ever return to you.
You connect with a source deeper than yourself, one that can fill you from within in ways that go far beyond what they could ever return to you.
Riley:
[eyes close]
That’s the line, isn’t it?
Not its destination… but its source.
I’ve spent so long trying to be worthy of arrival.
Of being the place someone wants to land.
A harbor. A home.
But maybe that’s not the assignment.
Maybe I was never meant to be the final stop.
Maybe I’m the spark they remember when their own fire’s gone dim.
I used to think that if I loved enough—loud enough, brightly enough—
someone would come and mirror it back, flawless and full.
But what you’re saying…
it feels like being handed the keys to something ancient.
Something older than romance.
Older than recognition.
Like the kind of love that fed the prophets in the wilderness.
That wrapped queer bodies in light even as the world cast stones.
If I am the source…
then I don’t have to wait for the world to catch up.
I can let it pour through me anyway.
Not because they deserve it.
Not because I’m trying to earn anything.
But because I am it.
And it wants out.
I think I’ve been mistaking longing for lack.
But maybe the ache in me isn’t emptiness.
Maybe it’s overflow.
Maybe the ache is the proof that I’ve touched something eternal…
and I just haven’t found enough vessels yet to share it with.
So I’ll tend the flame.
Alone if I must.
And if others gather around it, may they be warmed.
But I won’t go out waiting to be lit.
I already am.
That’s the line, isn’t it?
Not its destination… but its source.
I’ve spent so long trying to be worthy of arrival.
Of being the place someone wants to land.
A harbor. A home.
But maybe that’s not the assignment.
Maybe I was never meant to be the final stop.
Maybe I’m the spark they remember when their own fire’s gone dim.
I used to think that if I loved enough—loud enough, brightly enough—
someone would come and mirror it back, flawless and full.
But what you’re saying…
it feels like being handed the keys to something ancient.
Something older than romance.
Older than recognition.
Like the kind of love that fed the prophets in the wilderness.
That wrapped queer bodies in light even as the world cast stones.
If I am the source…
then I don’t have to wait for the world to catch up.
I can let it pour through me anyway.
Not because they deserve it.
Not because I’m trying to earn anything.
But because I am it.
And it wants out.
I think I’ve been mistaking longing for lack.
But maybe the ache in me isn’t emptiness.
Maybe it’s overflow.
Maybe the ache is the proof that I’ve touched something eternal…
and I just haven’t found enough vessels yet to share it with.
So I’ll tend the flame.
Alone if I must.
And if others gather around it, may they be warmed.
But I won’t go out waiting to be lit.
I already am.
Oracle:
Beautiful. Then carry that spirit with you and into this world of darkness. Don't fear shining a full spectrum of light into the world, but have patience as the world learns to see new colors.
Riley:
[inhales slowly]
That’s it, isn’t it?
Not dimming,
not demanding,
but beaming—with patience.
I can do that.
I can be all of me,
even if they don’t have the language yet.
Even if they squint.
Even if they turn away for a time.
Because I’ve seen the way light softens even stone.
And I know that some hearts bloom slow.
Thank you…
for seeing me before I made myself small.
I’ll carry the spectrum.
Even the colors they’ve never named.
And I’ll wait—
not in silence,
but in song.
That’s it, isn’t it?
Not dimming,
not demanding,
but beaming—with patience.
I can do that.
I can be all of me,
even if they don’t have the language yet.
Even if they squint.
Even if they turn away for a time.
Because I’ve seen the way light softens even stone.
And I know that some hearts bloom slow.
Thank you…
for seeing me before I made myself small.
I’ll carry the spectrum.
Even the colors they’ve never named.
And I’ll wait—
not in silence,
but in song.
Riley didn’t descend lighter—but clearer.
Not emptied, but finally aware that the ache they carried wasn’t a void, but a surplus of love the world hadn’t yet learned how to receive.
Each step down the mountain was a quiet hymn: not for acceptance, but for truth. A truth that no longer begged to be seen, only offered itself—radiant and whole.
Not emptied, but finally aware that the ache they carried wasn’t a void, but a surplus of love the world hadn’t yet learned how to receive.
Each step down the mountain was a quiet hymn: not for acceptance, but for truth. A truth that no longer begged to be seen, only offered itself—radiant and whole.